


Fate/Twisted Elysium

by Pandorian_Gray



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU where i resurrect everyone and kill them again, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Other, Psychological Drama, Role Reversal, Suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandorian_Gray/pseuds/Pandorian_Gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unknown catalyst causes the deceased Masters of Fate/Zero to return to battle- this time as Servants. In a world where they no longer exist as humans; legends walk among men, while they continue to struggle with the burdens of their memories, watching those who once fought for their sakes make the same human blunders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

> best/worst part of this fic is the fact that there are 2 El-Mellois, Gil and Gilles, Lance and Lancer, and everyone has at least 3 names they go by. But once you get used to the modernized names and referring to the Masters by Servant titles it gets less confusing. They also start using their human names more as time goes on and they get closer (you know, before I start killing them off in horrible ways)  
> The rules of this Grail war are different from the Fuyuki city one, as is the battleground. As it did not make sense to me to make a bunch of characters of usually European or Middleastern descent populate a fairly analogous nation like Japan, they are from all over the world, usually the country from which their legend originated, though some, like Alexander and Lance, chose to travel. Sometimes I get a bit confused about certain technicalities of the Fate universe because I can't really remember /stay night that well. But mostly, this world and its Grail war conform to a different but similar set of rules, and they're explained as this goes on.  
> tl;dr  
> just like the chapters  
> also as of chapter 9 there are no pairings or ships or anything, maybe Gilles/Ryuu seems pretty overt, the fic focuses on interaction but not romance. ON TO THE MAIN EVENT

Arturia Pendragon was fairly certain she'd made a mistake. Her destiny to fight and win the war for the Holy Grail, to achieve the greatness thrust upon her at birth and prove her worthiness, was currently being undermined by the very Servant she had summoned.

He was an unremarkable man, ruggedly handsome in his own way, she supposed, if objectivity were required, bragging mastery of long-ranged projectiles that seemed a rather offbeat interpretation of the class 'Archer.' His first request was that she buy him cigarettes, and within the first day he had smoked all of them, stealing sideways glances at her that would suggest disdain and familiarity on his part.

She requested his presence on a brisk walk about town, and he naturally led her to the highest point in the city, searching the landscape for perceived enemies, which didn't seem to frighten him in the slightest bit- it was as though his paranoia was simply a fact of life, not an ailment.

"Do you sense the other servants?" she asked him, probably the most words she'd spoken to him in days. Archer lifted his head to acknowledge her blankly, a puff of smoke seeping through his lips.

"It's different in your world, whatever kind of hell this is…this wasn't at all what I experienced when I fought in the fourth Holy Grail war…"

"So you can't sense them?"

"I sense two, vaguely. Not within this city, but this country or close. We are in Great Britain, correct?"  
Arturia nodded. Archer sucked in more noxious air from his cigarette, then threw the butt to the ground, where it smoldered briefly before crushed beneath his boot.

"Do you know who any of the masters are?"

"Because this war is on a global scale, only those who have chosen to identify themselves outright. I assume one of the presences is Diarmuid O'dyna from Northern Ireland, with whom I have shared brief correspondence.

"The names of the others?" he said impatiently.

"There is Alexander Macedonia, who travels frequently…the others have not revealed themselves to me," she said quietly.

"I see…this is looking unfortunate," Archer said, though the oddly smug smile on his lips bore little sadness, and neither did his amused tone. "I wonder if this really is Hell…or is it just fate screwing with us?"

"What are you talking about?" the girl hissed, still keeping a respectful distance from the servant. She was already at wit's end with his roundabout way of addressing issues, and his complete lack of emotional investment in anything he said.

"I think I could tell you the names and locations of the other masters...but assuming anything is never wise. I'd hate to develop an entire strategy based on presumption. Then again, as the saying goes, 'fool me once, shame on me-'"

"Archer!" Arturia cried, clearly upset. He looked at her coldly, saw nothing but an upset child, which only fueled her confusion and misery. She'd always pegged herself a tough-as-nails kind of girl, not even a girl really, and the way he stared at her was a clear indication that he saw her as nothing but.

"Are you really Arturia Pendragon?" he asked, his voice softer than usual.

"That is my name," she whispered, her hand instinctively running across the blade sheathed at her side. It was not Excalibur, at least not any Excalibur he recognized, and Archer probably wouldn't have been impressed even if it was a PPSh-41 submachine gun strapped to her belt. "And you, Archer- who are you?"

"An ally, by the name of Kiritsugu Emiya. The truth is probably too hard for you to fathom, so I would recommend you don't think about it. Your peace of mind should come before knowledge. Just do as I say, and we will survive this war."

"Do as you say?" she cried in indignation, her straw-colored locks twisting in a sudden gush of air, as though compelled by her emotions. "Do you realize you are _my_ servant, Archer?"

"I do, as you must realize that you summoned an Archer-class servant. I am not under any obligation to listen to you, moral or physical. Are you aware that an Archer class with such high independent action can survive on his own without his master for weeks? You need me far more than I need you, _Arturia Pendragon_."

Arturia bit back the anger on her tongue, but could not temper the dislike in her eyes. Archer did not seem to care, he simply lit up another cigarette and continued his chain-smoking impassively, watching the city below for a time while she stewed in anger.

"Do you have Diarmuid's phone number?"

"I do," she said, trying to retain her stoicism. "We agreed to meet each other first, before engaging in combat. We follow a similar code of honor, in that respect."

"In that case, you shouldn't be above calling to question him about his Servant. I have a feeling I know who he is, but once again, I do not like to act on presumption. If this is some God screwing with me again…shame on this disgusting world," he muttered.

Arturia ignored the last part, flipping open her cell-phone and dialing Diarmuid's number. Her fingers trembled apprehensively. They had only spoken via phoneline once- most of their correspondence had been through email, and she knew next to nothing about him. He did not sound old, his voice was very soft and calm, and he had an intelligence about him that was not overtaken by arrogance. He reminded her of...someone she'd sworn off thinking of, and would rather not address right now. Her heart ached with bitterness at the thought, as Archer watched her with an unreadable expression.

After the fifth ring, the Irishman answered. "Miss Pendragon?" he said amiably. "I was wondering when you would call."  
"It is me," she said calmly. "Are you prepared to talk about the terms of our engagement?"

"All business as always, Miss Pendragon, I admire that about you. I would be pleased to speak with you about our positions in the Holy Grail war, but I am unsure of how much you are willing to divulge over the phone."

"Perhaps the class of our Servants will be a good start?"  
"I will consent to such a conversation."

"As I brought it up, I will go first- the Servant I have summoned is Archer-"  
"Tell him my name."

"-Archer, who goes by the name of Kiritsugu Emiya. Does this mean anything to you?" she asked calmly.

There was a moment's hesitation on the other side of the phone. Diarmuid muffled the receiver to the best of his ability, cutting out most of his argument with whoever was on the other end. Arturia turned towards Archer, who was looking reflectively out at the city again. Finally, Diarmuid resumed their conversation, sounding a bit ruffled.

"Arturia?"  
"Yes."  
"I'm sorry for the wait, I was speaking to my Servant, Caster."

"I see…so you have summoned Caster."  
"Miss Pendragon, I was hoping to request your temporary alliance in this war, but my Servant is staunchly against it. I apologize for any miscommunication on my part-"  
"Is everything ok, Diarmuid?"

"Everything is quite OK, but…listen, I will be flying to Britain in two days, but the circumstances of this engagement are grim. My servant, Kayneth Archibald, seems to have a tie to your Servant and is quite unwilling to compromise with him."

"I understand," Arturia said regretfully. "I look forward to our meeting regardless, Sir Diarmuid."

"Aye," he agreed morosely. "Farewell, Miss Pendragon, and good luck in the upcoming fight."

The dull buzz of the receiver met her ear, and Arturia hung up as well, meeting the eyes of her seemingly uninterested Servant.

"Kayneth Archibald, eh?"  
"Who the hell are you?" Arturia hissed, betrayal seeping into her tone. "You who have already trampled on my first chance at an ally-"

"What purpose are allies in a Battle Royale? Did you think your inevitable betrayal would be a kind one?"

His cigarette was at its last centimeter, the smoke from his breath escaping into the chilly air. Arturia was still furious, but unable to respond.

"That pair is a dead end. There is no purpose in seeking alliance with those who blind themselves to reality. Perhaps Kayneth has learned the truth of war by now…the fool you call Diarmuid, on the other hand…"

"If you hate everyone so much…if you feel no hope for their salvation…why even fight in such a war?" Arturia hissed, grabbing his sleeve. Unoffended, Archer stared at her with pity, shook her off casually.

"Perhaps to see what fate can throw at me this time. Or perhaps because I never lost hope. There are loose ends I never tied together, and it is my nature to despise a tangled mess."

* * *

Although Gil Babili's homeland was largely war-torn and plagued by starvation, oppression and the occasional American battalion, he was able to live a lavish and unhindered life of hedonism inside the palace bestowed upon him by birthright. The latter pestilence, those ill-bred assholes from the West, were a nuisance, but due to the fact that he had money- loads of it, actually, it was pretty easy to get them to leave him the fuck alone- people were so predictable in that way. It was funny to him that they looked down upon prostitutes when they were willing to do far sleazier things for a bit of cash…all humans were whores in that respect, weren't they?

His interest in magecraft had really developed as an attempt to stave off the boredom that came from living in a desert wasteland, palace or no palace. The Holy Grail itself, with its power to grant wishes and change reality, didn't really appeal to him in the sense of desiring miracles. As he had already experienced for the last 27 fucking years of his life, perfection and getting everything you want without question was extremely tedious. While there were things he wanted to undo, things he'd rather not have happened, the idea of 'wishing' for them to end differently...how repugnant, how weak. No, the Grail was just an object. Miracles didn't exist in the sense people thought they did, it was always some Monkey's Paw bullshit running the game, and fucking with a higher power only ever ruined things. As for the Grail, he considered it just another trophy in that respect- the fighting and bloodshed that would ensue as the result of said trophy, however? Priceless.

But then, there was the issue of his Servant. Lancer class, all-around good stats (with the typical exception of Luck, how silly though), but he was a mopey sonofabitch, and did everything he was told with a resentful sullenness, refusing to speak unless spoken to. He'd hoped for something more entertaining than this, with the Grail's tendency to summon legends from words beyond their own…at least, that was what he'd been told.

The Servant was summoned wearing very elegant western clothing, but his name- Tohsaka; that was Asian in origin, Japanese the man later informed him ruefully. All attempts to engage him resulted in a most hateful expression and a "yes, sir," which was getting very tiring, and his attempts to get him to lighten up usually resulted in an insincere "I'll try harder."

"We have a guest coming today," Gil said to the man casually as he poured wine into a glass with a delicate care. "Pour yourself some as well," he ordered offhandedly. "As I was saying we have a guest today- one of the other Masters and her Servant."

Lancer nodded to show he heard, sipping his wine apprehensively.

"I have offered her a temporary alliance, as she is the closest to us in location. She will not disclose details about her Servant, just that he is of the Saber class. Isn't that funny? That's what I'd hoped to summon you as…I suppose I should have put more effort fourth," he said, laughing heartily as though to make up for his Servant's silence. "I hope she doesn't intend to betray me, Lancer. That would be a grievous mistake to make; trying to catch me off guard."

"Indeed it would," Lancer offered with a cold cynicism.

"Seriously, Lancer, what's the matter with you? That insufferable, resigned attitude of yours…"  
"I will try harder to behave to your liking," he offered, looking to the side. There was an odd red flush crossing his Servant's features- he couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment. Gil beckoned him closer, and he did as ordered, walking forward with the hesitance of a spooked cat, trying not to flinch when Gil continued beckoning, the distance between them diminishing to an uncomfortable level. His Master pushed his chin up, looking at his neck with amusement, before moving his head around like a mannequin's and taking in his features critically. Lancer's hand twitched briefly, as though he longed to swat him away, but he held himself back rather admirably.

"Such a prissy, entitled bitch you are, Lancer. I don't like it," Gil whispered dangerously.

"Apologies, Master."

"You apologize and yet, you aren't sincere at all. I fear you will be a bit of a thorn in my side. Can't you at least _pretend_ to like me?"

"That would be difficult for me, Master."

Lancer was developing a rather passive-aggressive streak. Gil tilted his head, pondering the ramifications of having a hateful Servant. On one hand, it could be amusing to cause him misery…but on the other, it would hinder his progress in the war, and ran the risk of betrayal. How was he to go about this? Obviously he had to set him straight.

"And you expect me to believe your loyalty is unfaltering?"

"I'm not lying when I say I will serve you to the best of my ability." His response seemed genuine, but it was empty. He would do the best he could, and that was it. He would not exert himself beyond that.

"What happened to make you such a bitter dog, Lancer? Do tell. If we're going to be stuck together, I'd like to know _all about you_."

Gil swirled the contents of his wine glass around, observing the radiant beams refracting from the crystal. A shaft of light fell across Tokiomi Tohsaka's eye- it was so painfully blue, like the cloudless sky outside. He bit his lip for a moment, instinctively stroked the tiny stub of a beard that sprouted from his chin. Finally he spoke.

"Someone I trusted betrayed me."

Gil smirked, placing his hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter. Lancer's hands shook.

"What's the matter, dog…did he look like me?"  
"No," he said resolutely. "He looked the very opposite."

"Then what's the problem? People are bound to betray you, no matter how loyal they claim to be. The very notion that someone should be a true friend to you is flawed. Allies are just enemies that haven't fully evolved yet…in a way, an enemy is more reliable, is he not? You can count on an enemy to act predictably, to always view you through a consistent lens, no matter how perverted his view may be. On the other hand, this news doesn't seem to be cheering you up any. If it doesn't pain you to tell, for what reason did this friend betray you?"

"For someone like you," Lancer said coldly, looking through him as though denying his existence. "Someone just like you."

* * *

Gilles Montmorency shared not only his name with the infamous serial killer, but his bloodthirsty affinity. After a while, he began to think he _was_ Gilles de Rais and could not be convinced otherwise, his disturbing hobbies finally surfacing in a massive scandal that had only served to enlighten him more. He was probably closer to the truth than anyone else in that regard, but in this case the truth was unfortunate and disturbing and better left unspoken, and had warped him into an ugly shell of his former self. At the age of 36, he looked closer to 70, his body shriveled and malnourished, brain damage resulting from prolonged cannibalism causing his eyes to not function properly.

He had performed the summoning ritual in his cell as he awaited death row, drawing the symbol in his own blood after biting open his fingertip, having memorized it during his obsessive phase with 'witchcraft.' He hadn't really expected it to work, it was more of a way to stave off boredom, and he almost pissed himself when Assassin appeared behind him, threw his arms around him and positively squealed with delight-

"Castaaaah!"

After his Servant broke him out of jail, which was surprisingly easy, he looked more intently into the concept of the Holy Grail war, discovering the seven classes and the purpose of Noble Phantasms and the like, which didn't really interest him at all.

What interested him was the fact that he had a 'Servant' that shared his complex love for organs and sniveling brats, and had an apparent obsession with him that made it quite easy to forget the fact that he was hideously deformed.

Assassin, who introduced himself as Ryunosuke Uryu, was an effeminate Japanese man whose face and enthusiasm were mistakable for that of a schoolboy; and Gilles absolutely _loved_ schoolboys. Assassin did not hesitate in explaining the circumstances, confirming his theory that he was the serial killer reincarnate, and that they were destined soulmates whose friendship had transcended the mundane laws of space-time and human mortality.

It was fate, he exclaimed proudly!

And such a beautiful fate it was. Gilles resumed his killing spree shortly thereafter, aided by his Servant's untraceable stealth and surprisingly intelligent approach to murder. The only thing that bothered him was the concept of these 'other' masters. He wasn't really sure how to deal with the information that six teams of highly-trained magical killers would soon be hunting him down for the purpose of obtaining a mystic artifact he had absolutely no interest in. He was simply fascinated by the concept of misusing Ryunosuke's power to get away with murder on a massive scale, something that his companion relished with outright glee.

"I can't help but feel like I'm forgetting something, though," Assassin pondered one night, washing the blood from his hands and watching the liquid swirl down the drain with a sinking feeling.

After a while, they spoke of the possibilities of killing the other Master/Servant teams, something Assassin wasn't initially keen on.

"I've been thinking about it, Assassin! Listen, listen, dear child, you say it is within the last moments of life that a person's mind can truly flourish, that the beauty of their desperation is evident. That's it exactly, then! The more powerful a being, the more anguish in their death, the more beautiful their despair!"

"I never thought of it that way," Assassin mused, scratching his chin. "I always thought that the fear of innocents was more genuine. But I remember now…that enlightenment I found upon my own death…I would like to share that enlightenment with others…wouldn't that be nice?"

"Do you sense any others like you nearby?"

"Not within this city…but there is a faint source of prana several miles to the east. They cannot feel me, but I can feel them."

"Oooh, what do you sense?" Gilles murmured, eyes practically bugging out of his head. Assassin focused on the other Servant, his reluctance quickly giving way to intrigue.  
"There's something incredibly… _off_ …about him."

"How so?"

"He's a corrupted spirit…polluted, I suppose you could say. His mana gives off a revolting stench."

"Is this a bad thing?"

"Oh no, not for us," Assassin said with an oddly lustful smile, as though relishing the thought of it. "Have you ever dissected a rotting corpse under the guise of a human?"

"He's a zombie?"

"Don't be silly, Gilles-kun. He's far worse than that. A _zombie_ can't think or feel."

Giles looked in two different directions, unable to comprehend but finding the concept exhilarating nonetheless.

Assassin clasped his hands together and praised his luck.

"Such a disgusting aura…this is so –cool!- I wonder what he's like on the inside~"

"So if this pair cannot sense us, it would be an unfair advantage to just kill them quietly, would it not?" Gilles mused, interrupting his companion's fantasy. Assassin pouted, abhorring the very thought of this.

"I am in full agreement, Gilles! What's the point in an easy death with no struggle? That is firmly against everything I stand for!" he cried indignantly.

"So what do we do, Assassin?" Gilles roared with an impressive emotion, a few tears trickling from his absurd eyes.

"We draw them out with some spectacular murders, that's what! Let's not disappoint our opponents, and give them the show of a lifetime!"

"So we're still killing children?"

"Hell yes, we're killing children. We will alert them to our presence, and welcome them with a bloodbath!"

* * *

Alexander Macedonia, upon first summoning his Servant, mistook him for a woman. In his defense, it was from behind, he was wearing a majestic cloak that concealed his musculature, and his hair was long and shiny enough to belong in a shampoo commercial. Upon the Servant turning around with a surly expression, he could definitely tell it was a man- a stunningly attractive man, nonetheless, but his brow was heavy and his chin solid. He seemed to be shocked for a moment, walked up to him and stared into his eyes as though searching for something, and then bowed impressively.

"It is an honor to serve you again, my King."

Alex laughed heartily and thumped him on the back. Rider's behavior from then on out was a hesitant sort of admiration that he spared all else. He seemed so genuinely and inexplicably happy that Alex couldn't help but feed off his exuberance- and he was already an uplifted spirit.

For the first week, his Servant's only indulgence was fine cigars, which he smoked when pensive…which was rather frequent, come to think of it. But he was also quite fond of simple activities such as reading and video games. While moody in nature and quite easily ruffled, he was overall a pleasant surprise, if it weren't for one factor.

Alex was pretty sure he had mistaken him for someone else.

Macedonia worked in a motorcycle repair shop, lived modestly, and spent most of his free time visiting friends in foreign countries. While he had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, he hadn't finished high-school due to his poor attention span. He was a hit with men and women alike, but rather unsuccessful in long-term relationships due to his overbearing personality. Overall, his list of accomplishments was unimpressive, and though he lived with no regrets, he couldn't help but feel guilty every time El Melloi II smiled at him.

Their current location, a beachside resort not far off Rotterdam, was courtesy of an acquaintance of Alex's. They were sharing a few beers, and Rider kept looking longingly at the ocean in a way that made him feel an unfamiliar melancholia. Restlessness stirred at the giant's nerves. Perhaps there was another Servant nearby- undoubtedly the country across the water was an ideal place for Magecraft; it had been the birthplace of true magic, after all, something Alexander understood little of. His choice to take part in this 'War' resulted upon discovery of his father's latent bloodline- without having to work at it, his body produced an unnaturally large amount of prana naturally. Still, when it came to actual Magecraft, he fumbled hopelessly, so Rider's faith in him, while flattering, was sorely misguided.

"Why do you admire me so much?" he finally said, tilting back his head and guzzling the beer to hide his slight embarrassment. Rider did not respond to him, not at first.

"I worry sometimes that you've mistaken me for someone else."

"I have not," the Servant said resolutely. "I am absolutely sure you are my friend, my King, Alexander the Great."

"The King of Conquerors? Dear Sir, the only thing I have conquered recently was my lunch, and even still, it was without risk or payoff. I'm worried I might be losing my physique," he mused, flexing his muscles and pouting absurdly. Rider turned to look at him, his expression soft.

"You don't remember that life, and perhaps you don't remember the time we worked together…but I'm sure it's you. And whether or not you've conquered so much as your apartment means little to me. It was not your feats which I admired, but your spirit. Perhaps it's better this way, anyway, that you don't remember," he said, a bitter sadness suddenly rising in his throat. "That you can see me now as your equal, and not a foolish child like I was…perhaps now I'm worthy of your friendship-"

"Get ahold of yourself, boy! Well…I suppose you're hardly a boy, I imagine we're about the same age…still, that pout, it doesn't suit you at all. Who determines such things as worthiness in your eyes? Who are you trying to prove yourself to?"

"I never did figure that out," Rider choked, somewhat between laughter and tears. "I told myself it was you, but that desire persisted before we ever met. But in the end, it was you that shaped the person I became. I assume my class association in your universe comes not from my own innate talents, but from the impression you left upon me-"

"Innate talents…Rider, your Noble Phantasms-"

Rider's pupils contacted like a hand recoiling from a venomous snake.

"Are you suggesting I force you back into a life you don't remember-"

"Dear Sir, it is not forcing me if I request it humbly, is it?"

"How could you ruin your happiness for such a thing? Are you aware of whom Alexander the Great was? Your life was a tragic one-"  
"I don't really know much about Alexander the Great," he confessed, scratching the back of his scalp. "I didn't make it through high-school. But even so! How can I fight alongside you as your equal, let alone your master, if I can't understand the circumstances of your dedication!?"

Rider shook his head.

"I can't do that. I can't. You are Alexander, but you are not the Alexander I knew. I would be playing God, forcing another's fate on you. It's best you remain ignorant. You have more than adequate prana to sustain me as you are. "

"Such a stubborn guy. Very well then, I shall respect your wishes, for the time being. The offer's on the table though! It makes me wonder, what being a King must be like. I suppose I can only speculate," he rambled, the alcohol beginning to settle in.

They spent the rest of the evening conversing naturally, the subject dropped from their mouths, but not their minds.

El Melloi had the feeling that this would not be the end of this conversation- this was Alexander, after all.

* * *

"You summoned me as a Caster. A useless, weak-bodied Caster," Diarmuid O'dyna's Servant complained, face in his hands. "You could have at least had the decency to summon me as Berserker," he cried.

"Your Noble Phantasm is impressive, regardless of class," the Master offered amiably, placing his hand on Caster's shoulder. Caster shrugged him of with an electric jolt, shivering as though disgusted by the friendly touch. "Besides, the Berserker class had already been summoned. Regardless of your statistics being boosted by Mad Enhancement, I fail to see why Berserker class would benefit you-"

"That's exactly it, isn't it? Once again, you fail to understand me!"

Diarmuid tilted his head, eyebrows knitting together in frustration. Caster was right about one thing: Diarmuid did not understand him in the slightest. He was trying damn hard, he was being damn patient, but the Servant rejected every gesture of kindness he made like a bad Christmas gift.

"Listen, regardless of your feelings about me as a person…and I have no idea why you seem to resent me, or Arturia's Servant for that matter...if you want to win this war, we'll have to work together as a team-"

"As a team? Pft. You, my Master, who holds my life in his hand- quite literally. One who can captivate the heart of any unfortunate wench who lays eyes on his wretched face-"  
"How do you know about that?" Diarmuid said, his expression suddenly alarmed. "I haven't spoken of that curse to you-"

"How thick do you think I am? You can play innocent all you want, but you are the same man who stole my beloved right from under my nose- who failed to protect me as a Servant because he was too busy fraternizing with the enemy. I will never forgive you."

"As a Servant," Diarmuid said quietly. "You are implying that I have participated in a Grail War before this one?"

"In the Heaven's Feel of Fuyuki City."

"Such a war does not exist in this universe," he replied, genuinely perplexed. Caster was seemingly recovering from his tantrum, rivulets of sweat running down his temple. He sighed audibly, looked at Diarmuid with a piercing gaze.

"You share his name and face, but perhaps not his memories and intent. Still, knowing what you are…knowing how your presence has wronged me in the past…I will find it hard not to hate you."

"Is there someone you hate more than me? Someone you can channel that rage into that isn't me?" Diarmuid cried desperately.

"Kiritsugu Emiya," he hissed, with such acidity that his Master feared his saliva might be venomous.

"Arturia's Servant," he said quietly, fingers pressing together nervously.

"Smitten with her, are you? Has she seen that mug of yours yet?"

"I'm not smitten…intrigued, perhaps, by her respectful demeanor…"

"I'll tell you a little secret about Arturia Pendragon- she turned on you just like everyone else. Even in this Universe you are cursed to be loved, and by proxy, hated. Those two emotions share a similar effect, hmm? Obsession, blindness to either faults or merits, the tendency to remove humanity from the equation?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Diarmuid said, his voice pained. "I don't want to cause you strife, Caster. I don't. I would protect you with my life, as I wish you would protect me…I would waste these command spells in an instant to prove my loyalty to you."

"What do you seek from that vessel?" Caster asked, his expression shifting suddenly. "Is it to erase your curse?"

"Yes," he whispered, fingers trailing across his cheek gingerly, as though that tiny speck, the only flaw to grace his body, caused him physical as well as emotional anguish. "All I want is to be seen for who I am."

"Impossible," Caster said, a sickly smile crawling across his lips. "Nobody will see you for who you are, curse or not. That's what it means to be human. But I believe in your intent, Diarmuid, flawed though it may be. I will help you seek your goal- I have none of my own."

"Perhaps you should seek meaning-"

"I would rather watch you flounder in your puddle of altruistic glory. That must sound cruel to you…Master."

"It does," he said reluctantly, suddenly afraid of the man he summoned.

"But if it gives you a reason to keep fighting, who am I to deny your wish? I was like you once as well, and nobody could have convinced me otherwise."

* * *

In the days following the initial summoning of Berserker, Lance Dulac was disturbed to discover two things about his servant.

One. His power was horrifying.

Two. His personality was not.

If it had been a matter of dealing with a Servant whose mind was as warped as his awfully sadistic Noble Phantasm, or perhaps a nice Servant with a nice power, or even an asshole whose power wasn't completely disgusting, it would be easier to deal with. But Berserker's polite optimism was depressing in and of itself, and Lance had suffered in the darkness of his own despair for too long to put up with it.

"But really, you should have put me under Mad Enhancement," Berserker said thoughtfully, shoveling plate after plate from the local Chinese Buffet down his throat. One would think he hadn't eaten properly in years.

"Why would I absolve my Servant's sanity for a boost of power that would probably kill me?" Lance said, winding his fingers into his tangled mane as Berserker reached over his plate and grabbed a piece of chicken from his, giving him a cheesy, determined grin.

"Because I'm probably physically the weakest Servant," he admitted, cheeks stuffed with food. "I don't have any strong attacks and I have no idea what I'm doing." Lance watched him with mingled fascination and pity, unsure of how to go about friendship with this man. He was painfully honest, on one hand, but his emotions completely ran his decisions, on the other, and Mad Enhancement or no, he seemed a few screws short of a hardware store. Lance was a tactician and very emotionally reserved, which did not sit well with Berserker, who liked to engage people in a friendly manner, as though to make up for lost time.

His appearance was another matter- despite his completely average facial structure and unremarkable build, his hair was diamond white and his skin recalled a corpse left out in the snow too long, which was rectified only somewhat by the oversized hood that had come with his bastardized Kimono. The getup was bizarre, even by Japanese standards, but it was to be expected from a Servant, whose soul surpassed the need to blend in with modern society and whose clothing was a physical manifestation of their history. Right now he wore a very plain set of running clothes, claiming to Lance upon his request for him to don street clothes that he hated fancy things and didn't feel comfortable in anything nicer. This was offset by the fact that Lance himself was wearing a very well-tailored suit, and was far better built than his servant, which would undoubtedly cause confusion in the upcoming battles.

Lance had spent the better half of this first week trying to get to know Berserker. For the most part, he was very open about his hobbies and his love of kids and his painfully normal hopes and dreams…whenever his past came into question, however, he would withdraw like an offended clam and become cold, casually changing the subject to something more his liking. That was all right, Lance figured the guy had some skeletons in his closet; so did he, after all, and it wouldn't be prudent to dwell on things that made his Servant uncomfortable. He'd given him a first name, and that was it- Kariya. Kariya liked photography and writing, and taking walks in the park. Kariya was so excruciatingly average under his disfigured skin that Lance wondered if his brain had been forcefully implanted in this body as a joke.

"So what makes you want to fight the Holy Grail war?" Berserker asked cheerfully.

"Duty," Lance responded stoically.

"Duty to whom?" Berserker pressed, swallowing his last bite and looking unusually invested.

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"We don't have to, but I don't want to follow you around if you're a completely selfish asshole who's doing this for the wrong reason," he said meaningfully.

"And what do you think is a valid reason to wage war?" Lance said quietly, looking around to make sure nobody had heard them.

"I don't know," he said reluctantly, suddenly clamming up again. "Honor, or to help people you care about…something valiant…" he mumbled noncommittally.

"Perhaps my intentions are honorable…everyone's are, to some degree, after all, the circumstances that taint some people are a valid reason enough for wanting a less-than-admirable wish…what about you, Berserker? What will you do if you win the war?"

"I'd wish for a better outcome to my timeline, if such a wish is possible."  
"It is. The Grail can grant the impossible to those who seek it."

"Then that's what I wish for, a better conclusion, so that the people I care about can live happy."

"And what about yourself?" Lance asked, watching him scrutinously. Something was off about him, and it made him uneasy.

"…What?" the Servant asked, after a moment's hesitation.

"What about your own happiness? I can see from your body's physical state that you're in a lot of pain. Don't you want to secure your own happiness?"

"If they're happy, so am I," he said stubbornly. Lance did not press it further, because Berserker was clamming up again, crossing his arms and staring furiously out the window. He looked a bit ridiculous and unthreatening with his eyepatch and his childish pose. If Lance was not aware of his Noble Phantasm, he would be hard pressed to believe this man capable of harming another being, mentally or physically. He seemed to have a dark side to him, however, one that was triggered by minute displays of cruelty or mentioning's of his past. His hot-bloodedness did not work to Lance's tactical advantage, but there were things about him that would be extremely useful, despite his claims that he was weak. Overall, it was not an ideal match, but it was passable. The most important thing, however, was that their shared view on justice, because deviations in alignment were ultimately what screwed most pairs over.

"Berserker…my research has brought my attention to another Master in France. I believe his methods to be dangerous, and his morality to be questionable. He has made numerous references that he would not be averse to killing weaker civilians to get what he wants. Since you have not sensed his presence yet…"

"The Assassin class? I see…so you want to be heroic after all!" Berserker said cheerfully.

"If it pleases you to call it that…I don't see anything to gain from the slaughter of innocents. We should kill the Servant quickly, and neutralize the master if necessary."

"hmm…about that, Lance…"

Lance watched Berserker's expression harden somewhat.

"Who is mediating this war?"

"Mediating?"

"You don't go through a church of any sort? There's no one making sure you don't act out and endanger others?"  
"That sounds like a good theory, but we don't have a system like that."

"Good in theory…yes…there's no such thing as an unbiased mediator anyway," he mumbled somewhat bitterly. "Even someone looking out for the secrecy of the Magus society or attempting to prevent casualty probably has impure motives."

"The way you speak sometimes suggests you have participated in similar wars before."  
"Perhaps," Berserker said offhandedly. "I think we're better off working without alliances."

"I wasn't hoping to form any alliances either. The idea of having to betray an ally is repulsive to me. I would rather be alone."

"You won't be alone," Berserker said, somewhat awkwardly. "I'm here too."

"Ah, yes, I mustn't forget that. I truly am grateful for your company, Berserker, for that reason alone it's worth keeping your sanity intact," he said, forcing himself to smile cheerfully. For once the act was not mirrored in return. If anything, Berserker's face had fallen, his eyes clouded with inexplicable guilt.

* * *

Zayda Hassan-i-Sabah was an uncomfortably quiet individual. Her servant, Saber, was also rather quiet, and so their interactions were cold and limited. She did not question him about his past life, nor did she seem concerned by the fact that he was apparently a staunch Catholic while she was devoutly Muslim. She didn't seem interested in him at all, really, not at first. This was clearly taxing to him after a while, because even sociopaths dislike being ignored for prolonged periods of time.

"What is the purpose in summoning me if you aren't going to speak to me?" he finally said, tenting his fingers and looking out the window of their private plane. "If you don't learn my methods you will be unsuited to command me, and we will die. Or perhaps that is your intention? That would be a rather perverse irony," he added, chuckling to himself.

Zayda had no idea what he was talking about, but her face was remarkably impassive.

"With full awareness of all of your Phantasms, I am not even slightly apprehensive about losing. Just to be certain we are meeting with Gil Babili, who is in possession of a Lancer-class Servant. He is undoubtedly a backstabbing swine, but I will use our meeting as a manner of testing the waters."

"Sounds promising," Saber said with a rather sickening grin. "And you yourself are familiar with the art of backstabbing, or am I wrong?"

"You are not incorrect," she responded, with reluctance. "Unfortunately, my effectiveness at what you refer to as the 'art' of backstabbing is reliant on my rather fragile state of mind."  
"Dissociative identity disorder," he replied, not missing a beat. "A fractured being who hopes to cure her ailment by winning the Holy Grail war."

"You are a bit of a pest, Saber."  
"Do I frighten you?"  
"Even if you did, it would be unwise of me to admit to my fear."

"Snakes can _smell_ fear, _Master_."

"Do not toy with me. If I sense your betrayal, I will terminate you without a second thought. My life means more to me than the Grail."

"Ah, the beauty of the human condition; fear for one's life the most pervasive of all instincts. Though there are still those that lack such reservations. Are you prepared to face them?"

"Are you such a creature, Saber?"

"I cannot lay claim such an admirable feat. Still, I am curious to see what your makeshift ally has in store for us."

"You call yourself a man of God, but your words are empty."

"My actions speak volumes, however," Saber said, his eyes half-lidded, glazed over with an expectant look. Zayda's eyes were narrowed, tiny slits of white peeking through a fortress of dark skin.

"Such a face when I haven't done anything wrong…I have no reason to betray you. You're supplying me with prana. My existence in this world is tethered to your own. I have already established my desire to live- I died twice already, I'm worried the third time might be the charm," he said carelessly, reclining in his seat, far too at ease for his Master's liking.


	2. Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caster (Kayneth) and Archer (Kiritsugu) fight for the first time! Teams Lancer and Saber meet, and displeasure is shared all around, with the exception of Gil, who is having the time of his life watching everyone squirm. Alexander sends an email! Team Assassin baits Team Berserker the best way they know how! Berserker (Kariya) is about to unleash his rage! Action! Suspense! Bromance!

Stationed at the seaside just outside Holyhead, Arturia and her Servant waited. Kiritsugu took it upon himself to inspect every rocky crevice, scoping out the environment for potential terrain advantages and playing with the cylinder of his revolver restlessly. After nearly an hour of waiting, Arturia withdrew her sword and gracefully slashed at invisible enemies, which went unnoticed by Archer at first. When she caught him staring, she became flustered and attempted to continue her swordsmanship practice, once again earning his ire despite the perfect form of her moves.

"What exactly do you plan to do if someone pulls a gun on you?" Archer said disdainfully, pointing his own at her and closing one eye, as though zeroing in on her as a target.

"I certainly hope you're competent enough to see through something that base," she replied with equal iciness, watching him load and unload his revolver with disgust. "Which raises the question of why you would bother with something as mundane as a revolver, anyway."

"Don't underestimate the power of other people's low expectations," Archer noted dully, reloading the gun and cocking it. "On that note, your boyfriend has arrived."

Diarmuid and his Servant made their way down the windswept beach, the later staring resolutely at the ground with an expression that would suggest he was about to have an aneurism. Perhaps he was, Arturia thought. Diarmuid himself was dressed modestly, a windbreaker covering his muscular frame, oversized sunglasses obscuring his eyes. She wished for a moment he would take them off, so they could make eye-contact. It seemed rather uncharacteristic of him, even though she didn't really know him that well.

"You are younger than I pictured, Miss Pendragon," he said amiably, an honest attempt at conversation that caused Arturia's cheeks to redden, and he suddenly lost his resolve, stuttered in response, sounding upset with himself. "P-perhaps that was an inappropriate comment? I simply meant that you speak with a maturity-"

"Get on with it," Caster ordered tiredly, twisting his rather fucked-up expression so that it focused on Archer hungrily. Kiritsugu appeared unfazed, but Arturia knew better- he was analyzing every minute detail of the scene unfolding.

"I apologize for my lateness. The flight was delayed nearly an hour, we nearly caused five traffic accidents to get here this late. On that note, perhaps we should start-"

The second he said start, Archer had flickered out of view. A gunshot rang through the air, Caster weaving to the side just as it went past his ear, his eyes bugging furiously.

"Bastard!" he screamed. "You are a lowlife no matter what form you take!"

Archer was at his Master's side again, head tilted with scrutiny.

"Stay out of the way, Arturia," he ordered.

She hissed in dissent, but realized with reluctance that he was right. Arturia retreated a respectful distance, Diarmuid reluctantly following suit. Archer took another two shots as he moved at the speed of sound, one apparently making its mark, but no blood poured from Caster's flesh, he merely stared forward with a deranged grin as his body parted around the obtrusion, the shot continuing outwards towards the ocean.

"The Volumen Hydragyrum manifests as your physical body now."

"Indeed, Kiritsugu Emiya. At that range you'd be hard-pressed to hit me before I liquefy. Good luck breaking my defense this time, especially since those bullets are hardly charged," he crooned condescendingly.

Archer was unimpressed. He flickered dangerously, firing another shot at the back of Caster's head, which was enveloped by the plasma that protected him automatically.

"Come now, you think I'm not prepared for that?"

Archer was silent and persistent. The Volumen Hydragyrum shifted to attack mode, searching out his movements and confronting its enemy with all the hunger of a voracious predator. Fast as Archer was, the liquid was almost able to match him, thrown off only by the temporary whiplash of bullets striking its surface. Out of ammunition, Kiritsugu tossed his first gun aside and withdrew another from his coat- a semiautomatic handgun.

"You're still playing around with me," Caster said, somewhere between amused and upset. "Do you really take me that lightly?"

"I acknowledge you," Archer said coldly, cocking the weapon and firing at Kayneth twice in rapid succession, noting the liquid overcompensating for the extra shot and leaving a weak spot in the back without blinking.

"You're trying to do the same thing twice!" he cried, clearly upset. "You refuse to even use your Noble Phantasm against me, knowing it would destroy me instantly?!"

"Because you're holding back. You obviously understand the nature of the Noble Phantasm by now, and have formed a counterattack."

"The Origin Shot is more effective against a stronger Phantasm. My Volumen Hydragyrum is relatively weak right now, compared to its unleashed form. The prana used to fire your Noble Phantasm, as well as the charging time, is quite a gamble. It fries all mana unbound to you in a manner akin to dropping a hairdryer in a bathtub, but if you only splash water on it, it's ineffective, and it also leaves you helpless until you recharge."

"More or less."

"So you're attempting to provoke me into using a large-scale attack, making the plausibility of missing less of a gamble, and the devastation of your Noble Phantasm absolute."

Archer's next doubleshot hit the Volumen Hydragyrum, but his attempt to attack the weak spot was also unsuccessful, the liquid rippling benignly to cover it, the bullets plinking off like tin foil.

"And your Noble Phantasm has a memory," Archer noted coldly.

Caster started to laugh, his body melting like candlewax and splattering in all directions, forming bullet-like droplets. They started to fire rapidly from all directions, Kiritsugu avoiding them by speeding up time for his body once more. Unfazed, the liquid ran together and reformed as El-Melloi, who was still amused.

"Right you are, _Archer_ \- the longer you fight me; the more you educate _me_ in return. Not only your Phantasm, but your physical attacks, will become less effective as time goes on. I am able not only to form countermeasures, but to match physical attacks. Isn't that funny, Kiri-tsugu? Your own cautiousness is your downfall. The longer you fight, the more you seal your own fate," he sang, his eyes positively mad with glee.

Archer looked at his gun with insipid resignation. Then he smirked, Kayneth's eyes shooting open in anger as he began to chuckle.

"You're right, Archibald. I underestimated you. Congratulations," he said carelessly. El-Melloi attempted to lash out, of course outmaneuvered by Archer's speed, but his opponent moved, not towards him, towards Arturia, who was still standing aside with a furious look. Covering her mouth and drawing her against him, he pointed his gun to her head, the obvious shock on her face relaying the fact that this was not a planned action.

"You'd kill your own Master?" Caster scoffed.

"I would," he said coldly. "I could find another one easily."

"And why should this concern me?" Caster laughed raucously. If Archer pulled the trigger before his hit landed, the girl's blood was on _his_ hands, not Caster's. He prepared to attack regardless, but his body would not yield. His liquid form had slowed to the point of near molasses. Kiritsugu had not moved and inch, but…

Craning his neck backwards, he looked at Diarmuid, whose sunglasses had been removed, outstretched hand glowing brightly as wisps of red light escaped into the air.

"Caster. Withdraw us both, _now_ ," he said coldly, shooting Archer a look of utter contempt. Caster sputtered in indignation, but, unable to ignore the command, both Servant and Master evaporated from sight.

After a moment, Archer eased his hold on Arturia. The second he did this, she swung her fist as hard as her human strength would allow her, but Kiritsugu sidestepped with ease.

"You are a despicable bastard!" she cried. "That was the dirtiest trick I've ever-"

"Did you honestly think I would kill you?" he mused, unimpressed by her outburst.

"And why should I believe you wouldn't?"

"Because if I actually intended to kill you at any point, I'd have no qualms admitting it. Diarmuid performed exactly as I expected. Your life was never in danger. If anything, I spared you the dangerous position of an unprotected Master by forcing his hand."

"You never even used your real Noble Phantasm-"

"At this stage, that would have been reckless, even Caster acknowledged that. Perhaps if you fought with logic rather than honor, you would understand."

"Perhaps if I was a cutthroat bastard like you-"

"Let me tell you something, Arturia Pendragon, and this is something I was never able to get through your thick head- the world is full of cutthroat bastards, _just like me_. I will no longer make this argument. If you wish to give up this war, force my suicide right now. Like Caster, I cannot resist my master's will, so long as you retain command spells."

She moved her hand forward instinctively, fingers grasping at the air and eyes moving wildly, her own command spell glowing before her eyes. His gaze was completely devoid of remorse, but she couldn't force such an action, no matter how vile she found this man. It didn't make sense to her- HE didn't make sense to her. If he didn't care about his life, about the Grail, why was he even here? It could have been another bluff, but the look on his face was almost disappointed, as though Archer had hoped this sort of confrontation could be avoided.

"I'm not like you," she said quietly, lowering her hand.

"I know," he replied, turning away.

When he was quite certain she wouldn't kill him, he withdrew his lighter and sheltered it from the wind, the flicking sound barely audible as he lit yet another cigarette.

* * *

"Basically, we're setting up a scavenger hunt for them! Incentive for them to fight us!" Assassin said happily, decorating the room with intestines, like disgusting pink party favors. "You've already put the hints out there, and they've come to find us. But if we just meet up with them, that's no fun."

"True, true!" Gilles agreed, throwing a handful of blood like confetti, so it splashed upon the table with a sickening 'splat,' dribbling over the edges and onto the carpet. The occupants of the apartment sat near the doorway, leaning against each other like thoroughly-dissected dolls. Assassin grabbed them one by one, placing them in chairs around the dinner table, which was covered in 'food' comprised of their own organs.

"The best part is, they'll have to open every apartment in the complex before they find us, because I can conceal our presence. Assassin class is so cool!" he cried excitedly.

"They'll be so terrified, they won't even be able to fight properly," Gilles agreed. "I wish we could see their face for every apartment, though. Won't the novelty of it wear off after a while?"

"If they give up, we'll just confront them halfway through; put them out of their misery," Ryunosuke gibbered, looking dreamily at the scene before them. "Even if they don't see it, _someone_ will, right?"

"Oooh, yes! The police will have to clean up the mess afterwards, so we basically get what we want no matter what, right? Still…it was unfortunate having to kill so many adults too, they aren't nearly as fun," he said, somewhat sadly.

"They were in the way, it would have been too much of a bother otherwise. But there were lots of kids, too, so that makes up for it, right?"

"Right!" Gilles agreed ecstatically. "Besides, we both agreed that we would try different kinds of murder. But I'm terribly tired, Assassin. Setting up that barrier took a lot. Perhaps we can rest for now?"

"You rest, I'll make sure everything's perfect!" the Servant exclaimed.

"You are so cool, Mr Ryunosuke."

"You are too, Gilles!"

"I feel like nobody understood me before I met you."

"And I felt the same, when we first met. I'm just repaying the favor," he said sheepishly, as Gilles wiped a tear from his eye.

* * *

Gil Babili watched with the fevered excitement of a child as Zayda Hassan-i-Sabah's plane landed on his private airstrip. After a minute or so, the steps were in place and two people exited- A rather tall, well-dressed woman with an austere air about her, and her Servant, who remained a foot or so behind her out of politeness.

"Welcome!" Gil shouted enthusiastically. The Servant, a twenty-something-year-old man dressed in black robes that must have been stifling in the desert heat, looked up from his shaggy hair with an intrigued expression. He tilted his head as though slightly confused by Babili, but said nothing of it, just took in the details with a quiet interest.

"Where is your servant?" Zayda said as they greeted each other warily.

"He's inside, a bit stuffily dressed for the weather, I thought I'd spare him the desert heat," Gil laughed. She nodded, wary of his flippant attitude, and he showed them in, the guards at the entrance nodding and stepping aside.

As they walked down the halls, lavishly decorated with weaponry from all over the world, Saber turned out not to be as quiet as he initially appeared.

"That's quite a collection," he said in a delighted tone, and Gil smiled, glad someone actually cared for once.

"I have treasures from all ages in here. I can use almost all of them, too! Of course, I _wouldn't_ …most people aren't worth tarnishing a precious blade, wouldn't you agree?"

Saber laughed, but didn't say anything. Zayda continued to stare forward, more interested in the prospect of his Servant than his riches. When they reached the end of the hallway, he turned back to them.

"I warn you, he's moody. A bit of a drag, actually. Ah well."

They entered the front room, an airy, lavishly furnished chamber, where Lancer stood, hands crossed behind his back, staring out the window.

"I expected as much," Saber said in a low tone. "This changes things considerably."

Gil wished he could stamp Lancer's horrified fury into his mind for all eternity, because when he turned around, holy _fuck_ was he mad.

Saber's response was far less exaggerated- his body tensed, an almost sheepish expression crossed his face, as though he'd done something innocuously stupid but ultimately forgivable, like knocking over a nice vase, but it was condescending, it compelled Lancer to be angry, and angry he was. They both drew their weapons simultaneously and began to circle like vultures, their battle nonverbal, nonphysical, only fought through expressions. Gil made up words to match their expressions in his head, which went something like this:

Lancer: You slimy sonofabitch.

Saber: Who were you expecting, Santa Claus?

Lancer: I'm so angry I could shit myself.

Saber: Do it, fucker, entertain me.

Lancer: I will pluck out your eyes and eat them like grapes-

"Babili- please restrain your Servant," the woman requested, and Gil snapped back to reality, Lancer's staff glowing with a dangerous energy that spelled it all out: he was going to use his Noble Phantasm without a second thought. Which, exciting as that was, would _destroy the entire Palace._

"You know who you remind me of right now?" Saber said with a delightfully sadistic tone. "Matou Kariya. Oh, dear, I seem to have struck another nerve-"

"If you don't cease your charge, Lancer, I will force your compliance," Gil threatened gently, watching his servant back down with a dejected humiliation, prana retreating back into his body. He focused his attention on Saber, who retracted the clawlike blades he had summoned and looked around the room with a noncommittal interest, before his gaze suddenly darted right towards Gil, a nasty smirk crawling across his features, extending past his lips and into his eyes themselves. 'I know you,' he seemed to say. 'I know what you're thinking.'

"It would seem our servants are already acquainted," Zayda said coldly.

"It would seem so," Gil said snobbishly, not taking his eyes off Saber for a minute. "The question is, in what context? I would assume it's not a friendly one," he laughed, his amusement shared by nobody else in the room. Tension was high, but Gil's blood was singing with glee. "Lancer, explain the situation," he demanded.

"I believe his treacherous aura speaks for itself," the Servant said staunchly. Gil reminded himself to punish him later for being an embarrassment.

"Saber," Zayda demanded. The brunette nodded, opened his mouth, hesitating for a second.

"This is extremely complicated," he murmured.

"Then we're all going to sit the fuck down and listen, _aren't we, Lancer_."

Lancer wrinkled his nose with a firm dislike, then plopped into the armchair behind him, his position tense. Zayda and Saber took seats on opposite sides of the sofa, the woman stiff and reserved, Servant placing his chin on his hands as he collected his thoughts. Gil spread his arms out across the loveseat, content to just watch everyone else squirm.

"Well, Saber?" he prompted.

"Lancer and I come from the same timeline. To be precise, a variation of your current timeline, in what I suspect to be another universe. In that universe, you fought as our Servants, and we your Masters."

"Preposterous," Zayda hissed.

"The assassin class, my servant, was an entity that could split itself into several different bodies, each with a unique personality- you retain that name, as well as the nature of an assassin, do you not, Zayda? The Archer class, Gilgamesh, could manifest the Noble Phantasms he collected."

"Gilgamesh…like the legend? How very intriguing," Gil said with a smug smile. "I actually was named for him- my bloodline is said to descend from that very legend."

"I believe you are more than named for him," Saber sad stoically. "You are too identical in personality to be a mere descendant."

"Splendid!" Gil exclaimed, bending forward with a rapt interest, Lancer fuming in his chair. "And I assume, then, that you are the friend who stabbed my dear Lancer in the back?"

"Quite… _literally_ ," was all Lancer could manage, speaking through his teeth.

"This seems very far-fetched," Zayda said stoically.

"Doesn't it, though?" said Gil, leaning back once more. "But we live in a world where people don't believe in what they call 'magic,' and it exists, right under their noses! So I find it quite believable that an alternate universe could exist, where all of this took place- after all, Lancer is far too dogged to lie about such a thing, particularly if it means agreeing with someone he dislikes."

"If this is true, then the other Masters and Servants are likely variations from that universe as well," Zayda reasoned slowly, her reluctance and dislike of this information very clear. "Do you think they are aware of this?"

"From what I know of the other Masters- this timeline's 'Servants,' some will and some won't. It is reliant on the approach of each person," Saber said, becoming increasingly more engaged. "Think of it this way, Master. The thought that you may not be the person you thought you were your _entire life_ …it is a very disturbing concept, isn't it? The Servants will know this off the bat, and those that attempt explanation will most likely be ignored or misunderstood. If I told you that you were actually a sentient tomato and was unable to offer proof, it's doubtful that you'd believe me. On the other hand, the Servants themselves may not have realized the pattern of this universe yet. They will recognize their Masters, but few of them will jump to the conclusion that the rest of us were also drawn into this world- that would be too big a coincidence."

"We have an advantage, though!" Gil said, positively delighted. "You already know what to expect!"

"We do and we don't," Lancer suddenly interrupted. Everyone turned to him with mild surprise. His irritation was clear, but he was attempting to compose himself. "The rules of this war, and of Magecraft in general, are completely different. And knowing each other's personalities still doesn't reveal our Noble Phantasms until we meet each other face-to-face. On that note, knowing Kirei's true nature, I will not work alongside him."

"You _will_ -"

"Actually, Lancer is right, Babili," Zayda said, looking directly at him. Her face had an austere elegance to it, framed by hair of an absurd length and maintenance. Gil knew better than to judge her by the jewelry and expensive clothing she wore- he could make out the intense musculature wherever skin _did_ show. She was not a woman to be taken lightly. "This alliance is far too risky for my taste. I'm calling it off."

Gil's eyes were furious, but he held his tongue, thinking for a moment before forcing himself to smile.

"That's a pity, Hassan-i-Sabah. It puts you at a disadvantage, don't you think?"

"How so?" she said suspiciously.

"Our Servants probably already know the intent of the victor of the Holy Grail war. After all, they were Masters themselves, once. Since I personally do not plan to claim the Grail, the slaughter of my Servant at the end is rather unnecessary. You, however, plan to sacrifice Saber, don't you?"

Zayda's eyes widened.

"I see I'm right. In that case, Saber will do everything he can to subtly convince you to waste your command spells early on."

Zayda's complexion mutated from sienna to burgundy. She was clearly thinking of a way around this, but couldn't see one.

"How is hiding in a pit of vipers better than dealing with one?" she whispered.

"Please don't compare me to a snake, Hassan-i-Sabah. Although the situation is currently to your disadvantage, you are clearly a pragmatic individual who will think of something. The Soviet Union and the United States both had nuclear weapons, but neither was destroyed in the end. This is because they never fought each other directly. Let's put it that way- you are my enemy, but until you strike me, the war between us is cold."

He stood, stretching luxuriously, and even Saber looked apprehensive at his confidence.

"Don't take me for an idiot. The entire West Wing is open, feel free to choose any bedrooms you like."

* * *

The night after his first confrontation with Arturia and her Servant, Diarmuid opened his laptop with the intent of wasting his time, doing something fun and mindless to get his mind off the unsuccessful battle and the righteous anger that was eating at him. First, he checked his email, an expected habit for most modern gentleman, noticing the triangle-locked exclamation point marking a certain note 'important.' It was rare that people these days even bothered with those symbols, and so he clicked it with mild interest, much of the following message crafted in unnecessary capslock that made his head hurt.

Mr Odina:

GREETINGS, from ALEXANDER MACEDONIA, and his faithful servant, LORD EL MELLOI II!

Diramuid tried to dismiss the unfortunate misspelling of his name as an easy mistake for a foreigner to make and plowed through. The second name caused an immediate brow raise, but he read on, trying to ignore the excited text.

I am your future opponent, ALEXANDER MACEDONIA, a magus whose servant fights under the proud mantle of RIDER! I wish to bask in the glory of our shared experience as reincarnated heroes, before our servants partake in HONORABLE COMBAT! Below is the number with which you may contact me, ALEXANDER, to designate the time and place of our engagement! We look forward to kicking your asses!

-alex

After a moment's hesitation, he looked back to Caster's quarters, where the servant was undoubtedly still fuming at his decision to withdraw. Then he began to type a response, the clicking of his keys speeding up as his interest increased.

Dear Mr. Macedonia,

I am pleased to receive your email and would be most honored to give you a call to set up the stipulations of our rendezvous. What is your time-zone, so I know when will be the least inconvenient? I am quite interested to hear more about your Rider class Servant, as is my servant, Caster, also by the name of El Melloi…perhaps there is a relation? I do hope this information will not prove traumatic for your servant in any way, as I would like us both to fight under the best of conditions. I too look forward to engaging in honorable combat with you, although I am unsure of your reference to reincarnation? Take care, Alexander Macedonia, and feel free to call my number as well, if email correspondence does not suit you personally.

\- Diarmuid O'dyna.

* * *

"This complex is huge," Berserker remarked.

"But this is certainly the place," Lance replied. "There is a magical barrier on the entrance that makes it undetectable to civilians, but still attractive to a Magus, even a weak one like myself."

"That seems oddly courteous of them, to leave other people out of this," Berserker said as they entered the lobby.

"The intelligence I gathered on this man would suggest he was mentally unstable, so I wouldn't let my guard down. Do you detect them in the building?"

"I don't."

"Then they are likely concealing themselves. It's probably their intention to make us search for them, to wear us out."

Berserker grinned.

"I suppose they couldn't have known how easy that is for me," he remarked, holding his hand out lazily. At first it looked like his skin was flaking off, but Lance knew better- his forearm had transformed into thirty or so wasplike creatures, which hovered around them, buzzing loudly.

"I'll inspect the building, so we don't have to separate."

Lance nodded and opened the door to the fire escape, the insects tearing off to different floors. They took a seat in the lobby, Berserker picking up a magazine and reading it one-handed, since a large chunk of him was now missing.

"It's strange that there's no one here," Lance murmured. "How did they clear the building?"

Berserker didn't respond. Lance rested his head on his hand, eyes moving over to his Servant, who wasn't even reading the magazine anymore- he was crinkling it in his fingers, his eye so wide and horrified it looked ready to fall out of his head. It took a while for this to even hit home, but when it did, he was concerned.

"Berserker, are you all right?"

"They aren't on the first floor," he said, his words coming from somewhere distant- perhaps wherever his scouts were, but certainly not here. Then he dropped the magazine and threw up.

"Berserker!"

Lance shook Kariya, whose body was trembling so hard that he mistook the reaction as an attack from the other Servant.

"Are you ok? What's he doing to you, Berserker, where is he-"

"I haven't found him yet," Berserker said hollowly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The contents of what he'd just thrown up were writhing desperately, and Lance tried his best to ignore it. "T-the apartments…"

"What's wrong?!" Lance cried, grabbing his Servant's shoulders as he stopped talking, his face phasing to a detached, empty look that didn't suit him at all.

"Everyone in this complex is dead."

Lance drew back.

"They murdered them? But- _why_? How was that-"

"Not just murdered. Dismembered everyone. Propped them up like dolls, like they're still alive, watching TV or eating dinner or in their beds…this is so sick…I can't…" Another wave of vomit hit the Servant, Lance rubbing his back as though he was just drunk, unsure of how to proceed. He'd been prepared to handle any level of intelligence or power, but this was beyond reason. It wasn't smart, it was just tasteless- they were trying to win from pure shock value, and it was working.

"Should we draw back? These people are psychopaths, Berserker, we need to approach with caution-"

"No!" he shouted, suddenly angry. "No. They're going to pay for this. I'll kill these fuckers-"

"Berserker-"

"This is unforgiveable! This is so disgusting, I can't even begin to-"

"Berserker, if you can't be calm we need to draw back-"

"Put me under Mad Enhancement."

"What?"

"Just do it, now. I don't want to think about this anymore. _I don't want to think about anything_."

Lance bit his lip, then attempted to put his hand on Berserker's back once more.

"I can't, Kariya, my body won't be able to handle that-"

"Do you hate me that much?! Even in this universe, do you want me to suffer that badly?" he cried, shrugging his Master's arm away and pushing himself to his feet, tears sliding down his face. Lance watched him silently, rising from his crouched position and looking at his hand. Before he could even make the threat, Berserker's body erupted into a mass of droning beetles, which flew past him and made their way up the fire-escape.

Lance withdrew his handgun and followed, still at loss of whether a command spell would be worth the risk at this point. Resistance to command spells was possible for a Servant with extremely high pain tolerance, and if Berserker pushed past it and attempted to fight anyway, he'd be severely hindered. Not to mention, if he ordered Berserker's retreat when he was this upset, he would lose his trust, and the still-more-logical side of him relayed the nature of Kariya's Noble Phantasm. From what he could already gather of this Master-Servant pair, they would be the perfect duo to test it on. But regardless of Berserker's status as his tool, Lance felt bad for him. This kind of trauma was entirely unnecessary, especially for a guy who already seemed to have issues, and some of the things he'd said were disconcerting, because they belonged to some reality distant from Lance's own.

_Do you hate me?_

_Even in this universe, do you want me to suffer that badly?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Vessel.  
> Berserker fights Assassin. Archer meets Mordred and pities her intensely, much to Arturia's irritation. Gil's team talks about the rules of the war, preparing to fly to Europe after the incident in France appears on the news. Angst! Violence! Angsty Violence! Gil and Kirei are sociopaths! (but you already knew that)


	3. Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berserker fights Assassin. Archer meets Mordred and pities her intensely, much to Arturia's irritation. Gil's team talks about the rules of the war, preparing to fly to Europe after the incident in France appears on the news. Angst! Violence! Angsty Violence! Gil and Kirei are sociopaths! (but you already knew that)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short chapter, mostly to build up suspense. But there are a lot of important things mentioned in it that are pretty easy to overlook at first glance. The next few chapters, though, is when shit really starts going down.

Berserker found Gilles first. Regardless of his concealed mana, his physical body was present, the man's bulging eyes looking slightly intrigued, slightly amused by the mutant hornet that was crawling up the wall. He picked up a book, prepared to crush it, but Assassin appeared before him, dicing the bug to slivers as it prepared itself for attack.

"That's the Servant," he warned with a smile, Gilles putting his thumb on his chin. "He's found us."

"Oh?" Gilles said curiously, biting his nail.

"Don't like bugs?" Assassin asked. "Then you're not going to like this," he said with a grin, as the doorway collapsed, the blood-spattered room exploding with winged creatures, like the bastard child of a Japanese horror film. Berserker knit his body back together from the writing mass. His human form was frail-looking, skin nearly translucent, but his already scarred face bore a crazed expression, and behind Assassin, Gilles recoiled slightly.

"That's not quite the reaction I was hoping for," he mumbled, twiddling his fingers.

"Nah, we just have to scare him more," he assured his Master, tilting his head and tossing his dissection knives at the enemy, who once again collapsed into bugs and avoided them easily. Assassin then killed ten of his insects by hand, darting around and cutting them individually so that their bodies fell to the ground, before Berserker reformed, various cuts now decorating his skin. He tried again, Assassin continuing to pick them off one at a time. Berserker reformed at a distance this time, looking at him hatefully.

"If I keep doing that, it's going to damage you a lot, isn't it? You'd better stop," he warned sweetly. "Just let me cut you up all nice, so I can see what's under your skin."

This time, Ryunosuke attacked directly, flickering behind Berserker and wrapping his arms around the Servant, who didn't bother to escape, just tensed his body as Assassin raked his tongue across his bloody cheek. The scare-tactics weren't working very well anymore. Time to take it up a notch.

"You're kinda cute, you know that?" he breathed. "I bet other people think you're ugly. I understand you, though. People always thought I was cute, but I was ugly to the core."

Berserker's teeth twisted into a snarl before he turned into the swarm again, aiming for Gilles this time, who lifted his arm futilely to protect himself. He was starting to get predictable. Didn't he have any other abilities?

Unexpectedly, the beetles dived to the left, Assassin following, and in that moment of hesitation, Assassin intent on Berserker, a piercing bang rang through the room and his Master's raised hand exploded in a mess of blood, Gilles howling in pain. Immediately afterwards, a cold voice rang out.

"Stop, Berserker."

A well-dressed man with impractically long hair stood in the doorway, gun in hand, his Servant withdrawing and forming behind him as part of his command seal evaporated. Berserker was a mess of emotions, partially angry, partially relieved, trembling from the sustained effort of keeping his cool even a little. The Master looked as though he hadn't slept properly for months, expression mournful and distant, not quite with them. There was a superficial similarity between him and Gilles- the curve of their nose, the dark circles adorning his eyes, but his were focused and cold, his lips drawn into a straight line and a cold air about him that made Ryunosuke instantly dislike him.

"Assassin!" Gilles cried.

Ryunosuke was at his side immediately. The hand that had been shot off was the one that contained his command spells, but this didn't mean anything- the fact that Gilles was bleeding to death was the only thing that mattered.

"It's us or your Master, scumbag. Make your choice."

Assassin did. He wasn't very good at this tactical bullshit. His primary Noble Phantasm; Last Resort, was useless for anything but escaping, after all, though it gave them an edge- so long as Ryunosuke had enough prana (Last Resort required quite a bit of it, depending on how far he took them) he could flee from any situation in which he perceived his death imminent.

It occurred to him later, as he bandaged his Master's hand, that the other team had made an unnecessary compromise- if they had continued to fight, they would have won regardless- Berserker had been letting Ryunosuke damage him intentionally, and he had no idea why- most likely, he was hiding a second Phantasm and testing the waters. But even then, Assassin could not compensate for an entire swam of flesh-eating insects- if Berserker had split himself in two and attacked both Gilles and Ryunosuke, the broody Master easily could have finished the deal- or he could have just shot Gilles in the head outright and ended it then and there. This unnerved him to a degree, but he didn't say anything, just pressed a damp cloth to his Master's face and smiled.

"Ryunosuke?"

"We're ok, now. I'm sorry I was such a shitty Servant. I promise to protect you better next time."

* * *

After the retreat from battle with Caster, they returned to Arturia's hometown, where she attempted to blueprint battle strategies and research ways to break Caster's defense. There were actually several things they could have done, all of them sabotaged by Kiritsugu's stubbornness, and he could tell she was once more looking at her command spells. If she phrased it correctly, she could likely force his constant obedience, but even then he could probably find ways to spite her. Since she didn't understand him, it could potentially make things worse, so she didn't say anything, just went about her business for the next week.

Archer himself was watching the TV with rapt attention when another woman entered the room. He was used to this by now- the estate was enormous and Arturia had an absurd amount of bodyguards whom she refused to utilize, her apparent favorite currently standing in the other doorway, nodding politely to the woman but watching her very intently, contrary to his usually sunny disposition.

Arturia pretended not to notice her. The screen blazed in the background, Archer now cleaning the cylinder of one of his guns as he watched the news. When she didn't leave, Arturia finally spoke.

"What are you doing here, Mordred. You're supposed to rest," she said bluntly.

Archer gave an irritated sigh and turned the volume up without so much as acknowledging them.

"Police are still baffled by the fire that blazed through an entire apartment complex in Nantes, France, last Friday, leaving hundreds dead in its wake. The fire, which went unnoticed until an estimated two hours after its ignition, is believed to have been started in several locations throughout the building at once. The police have not disclosed the final death toll yet, but forensics have claimed they might have uncovered evidence of foul play. When asked to remark on this tragic event, the President of Fran-"

The TV cut off. The stranger held the remote in her hand, intent on Archer, who now gazed back with equal coldness. Dressed in prim-looking garb, she bore a striking resemblance to Arturia, but her face was devoid of emotion in an entirely different way. There was as disconnect between her features and her expression, her skin fair and body fragile-looking, but her eyes hateful. He could think of very few people possessing that kind of anger, but it was not her emotions that unnerved him.

"I'm bored," she said quietly. "You do nothing, Arturia. You're supposed to be fighting. It's not fair that you get to fight if you won't even use him properly."

"Leave, pest," Arturia hissed. "If you were more suited to battle you would have been chosen, but you weren't."

To her surprise, Archer rose, walked over to Mordred, who stood her ground without even the slightest apprehension, even as he extended his calloused hand towards her, lifting one of the strands of hair that framed her face. Then he turned away, letting the hair fall back against her cheek, placing his hands in his pockets and carelessly meandering out of the room as he pulled a pack of smokes from his jacket.

"Archer," the man standing guard said firmly, but Kiritsugu ignored him and continued on. Arturia stood too, pushing past Mordred and following him down the hall. The guard made a move to follow too.

"Stay, Gawain."

He nodded respectfully, but his dislike of not being next to her was clear.

"Archer," Arturia said to her retreating Servant, the tall windows of the hallway casting an eerie red light from the setting sun. "Archer!" she called again. He pushed open the door to the nearest balcony, stepping outside as he lit his cigarette. She joined him, slightly huffy. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Pulling his hand away, he took a brisk huff of noxious air and exhaled, the wind blowing his smoke into her face.

"You should be kind to that girl," he said noncommittally.

"Don't tell me what I should do. You know nothing about me-"

"I know everything about you, _Arthur_."

Arturia choked on her response, stewed in silence. He looked out at the countryside, the town unseen from this side of the complex.

"You know of the curse, then."

"You appear male to those of a status below your own. Only a high level Magus or a Servant can see you for what you are. The curse distorts even your name. It's easy to ascertain this- Gawain refers to you as Arthur, but those not affected by the spell speak and understand your true name and image."

"Why do you care?" she whispered.

"I don't."

"Then why do you tell me to be kind to Mordred? How could someone like you even speak of kindness, knowing who you are?"

He took one last drag and tossed the butt over the balcony, where it fizzled in the snow.

"Because she was created to die. Regardless of what you understand of me, you're no less cruel than I am. Your resentment may be founded in righteousness, but so is her spite. It does neither of you any good to hate each other."

"What do you suggest I do, then?" Arturia cried indignantly.

"Allow her to fight, and Gawain as well. Mordred will act as your proxy, and you won't have to deal with me directly. Gawain is suited to military tactics and does whatever you say."

"What good does that do me? Are you suggesting I act as a coward who can't stand beside my own Servant-"

"I'm suggesting you're a fool who doesn't know the truth of this war. But this is your war, not mine. The Nantes incident is the result of a Servant- one who doesn't play by the rules, who won't hesitate to play dirty. If your own justice is more important to you than the lives of innocents, that's on your hands, not mine-"

"Then I will send Gawain," she interrupted calmly. Kiritsugu looked the tiniest bit shocked at the compliance, but allowed her to finish. "I will send him to investigate the incident. I refuse to involve Mordred."

She turned away huffily, pushing through the doors and back into the warmth of the manor, Archer watching her back. It occurred to him that Arturia was completely aware of who she was- even in this setting, this potentially falsified world, she was King Arthur, and those who followed her obeyed without question. She had yet to explain her family's position in the country at large, but it was quickly becoming apparent that it was not simply a matter of power that drove her. How could such a legend translate to this reality, though?

Kiritsugu's hand moved to his side. He needed another smoke. There was so much to fathom, if the other Masters were self-aware as Arturia…and then he thought of the Servants, wondered what even drove them. Did they think there was a second chance to right the wrongs of the past world, or was it simple curiosity?

Mordred's cold eyes bore into his soul. That girl was clearly the vessel…was she already tainted, as his Grail had been? They would travel to France, soon, and he would have to face the other Servants. It didn't frighten him in the conventional sense, as he was already aware of his inevitable demise at the end of this war. Who was he facing, however? Would the incident attract others? Would it attract _that_ man?

He shouldn't be afraid at this point. Fear of Kotomine Kirei was like fear of the dark- rational, but pointless.

* * *

Gil's female companion was a significantly harder worker than him when it came to researching their enemies.

"The terrorist attack in France, as they are calling it, was clearly the result of a Master. The fact that the fire went unnoticed until the building was thoroughly destroyed, without even harming adjacent buildings, is proof of magus interference," Zayda said, dropping the newspaper onto the coffee table. "In addition, there have been rumors that some of the bodies recovered were dead before the fire even started."

Gil, lounging with his legs spread uncouthly, gazed at her with a bemused expression.

"You don't say," he replied with a smarmy smile. Lancer looked up from his book from across the room, attempting to stay out of this, before Gil called him out- "But still, a containment spell like that is rudimentary at best, as my dear Lancer must know. Who do you think it was, _Tohsaka_?"

"Why bother calling me by my name," Lancer asked quietly.

"Because this is the work of one of Tohsaka's old buddies, isn't it?"

"No," he said bluntly. "None of the other teams were my friends. Not during the war, at least. My only affiliations were with the two of you, and Saber."

"Which one do you think it could be, if you had to guess?" Zayda prompted him coldly.

"There are two choices, so far as I'm concerned, but there is a fair chance I'm wrong. The previous Master of Saber, Emiya Kiritsugu, who was a known terrorist, but his methods usually avoided the involvement of civilians if necessary, or the previous Master of Caster, Uryu Ryunosuke, a serial killer who wouldn't have been above murder on a grand scale."

"You think it was Kiritsugu? How naïve of you, Tokiomi. This is why you died the first time around," Saber said from the doorway, holding a cup of coffee in each hand. Lancer made a 'tch' sound, putting his book on the table. To his disdain, one of the cups was for him, and Saber placed it next to the book, where he eyed it as though poisoned coffee was an actual danger to his body, as though Kotomine was stupid enough to poison him without reason. It was pretty funny, actually, how stubborn he was.

"You obviously survived longer than me, _Kirei_ , so I'm not surprised you know more."

"Well, you were partially right, Tokiomi- the murder on a grand scale was likely the result of Uryu, who has apparently moved onto bigger and better things than mere child-slaughter," Kirei said, half between amusement and half disdain. "The fire, on the other hand, wasn't the result of Ryunosuke or his previous Servant. He would have wanted his work to be seen, wouldn't he? The fire was started by someone who wanted to spare others the misery of stumbling on such a travesty. Knowing Kiritsugu's pragmatism, he wouldn't have gone out of his way to leave a potential trail for us. There are only two of the previous teams who would have put their own morals ahead of the law at the risk of revealing themselves- previous Rider, or previous Berserker. I adamantly hope for the latter," he said with what appeared to Gil as some kind of wistful fondness for having committed utter travesty. Lancer brushed this off, probably hoping it wouldn't be brought up again, still looking longingly at his coffee and refusing to touch it.

"Assuming a battle took place, how do we know which Servant won?" Tokiomi said, rubbing his temple.

"You can't possibly know unless you meet the Master who defeated them. If a Servant dies, their command spells go to the victorious Master. Of course, if the Master is reckless with their command spells, it's even harder to tell. You can only assume if they have more than three," Gil said casually.

Lancer looked quite upset, Saber mildly troubled but quickly recovering.

"What about the Grail itself? Where does it manifest, and from whom?"

Gil paused for a moment, thinking about this one. Zayda continued the explanation, for his sake.

"The Pendragon family of Britain has created the homunculus this time around. They're the source of the war and protectors of the vessel. Undoubtedly one of their throng has summoned a Servant as well."

"Kiritsugu Emiya," Saber said smugly. 'But why have past wars been unsuccessful?"

"The sheer quantity of prana required to make a true wish was not gathered until the last war, which took place five years ago. Usually the gap between wars is larger, but… the details are murky. My clan always participates in the war, but the previous Hassan-i-Sabah was killed when his Berserker-class Servant turned on him. From what we were able to gather, there was a flaw in the Grail system- there were two homunculi, two vessels, and the mana was split between them."

"Two Grails?" Saber asked, looking intrigued. "If the Pendragon family created the first…"

"We don't know who created the second, or even what human form it took. Neither survived, of course. The vessel always expires at the end, they are created to do so. That's as much as I know."

"But who would have done that?" Lancer asked, looking irritated at the mere thought of a wasted Grail.

"Is it even important?" Gil said casually, looking at his fingernails. "The participants of the last war are out of our way, aren't they? Focus on _this_ war and _this_ Grail. What will be our next course of action? That's not a question, by the way, it's a reminder."

"Well, there are presumably Servants still in France, one being Uryu Ryunosuke," Lancer mumbled. "At least, this is what we have to believe until we are proven otherwise."

"We're headed to Europe, then?" Zayda asked calmly. "We should use public transport, in that case."

"Are you kidding? There's no way for me to smuggle my weapons on a public airplane, especially not out of _this_ country."

"What use do you have for ordinary weapons?" Zayda said coldly.

"Well, first off, Miss Hassan-i-Sabah, if I lose my Servant I will be vulnerable. Secondly, they are not normal weapons. If I charge them with my prana, I am capable of doing more than ordinary injury with them. And on that note, you are carrying a large number of illegal substances yourself- if you get caught with poison at the airport-"

"I get it," she hissed. "But I can't land my plane in a country it's not registered to fly to."

"Oh, I'll take care of that, Zayda, _dear_. You obviously don't know who I am. Your fortune is a laughable _fraction_ of my own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Don't lie to me.  
> Assassin goes to church! His body is cleansed by the power of Jesus Christ. Just kidding not really. Zayda exhibits her first display of mental instability. Lancer uses the internet and discovers rule 34! Wow, I'm a sarcastic bitch today…Caster is about to unleash his rage! Lance and Berserker tell each other some stuff. Friendship! Mindfucks! Emotional Baggage!


	4. Don't Lie to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone mentioned that Kirei isn't the Kirei from the fifth war: He actually is. The Servants take the idealized form of when they were physically their 'strongest,' so he appears the age he was in the fourth war. Mentally, he knows everything that happened afterwards. This is also why Kayneth and Kariya aren't horrendously crippled- Kayneth's body is pre-Kiritsugu and the Grail 'fixed' that aspect of Kariya at least, although he's still partially blind and physically weak, a Servant who can barely walk would be super fucking useless, especially a Berserker. Also why Kiritsugu isn't suffering crippling pain all the time as well. Waver is his adult form because that was when he was physically his most capable. But Kirei…yes, Kirei is his personality from the fifth war, and he's aware of those circumstances.

When Gilles came to, he murmured a location to Ryunosuke, voice weak- Apocrypha Cathedral, Orleans. Assassin wasn't really a churchgoer, but he didn't have much of a choice- Gilles was still recovering, and he was a wanted criminal; taking him to a hospital would mean exposing him, putting him at the mercy of other Masters. He'd been able to amputate his Master's hand and cauterize it at the wrist due to his familiarity with dismembering people, but felt strangely nauseous, which was odd- amputations had never bothered him before. Perhaps because it was because it was Gilles, he was uncomfortable. Maiming someone you don't give two shits about is easy, cutting off your good friend's mutilated dominant hand is pretty depressing.

The Church was decrepit and creepy, but cool in its own way. The stained-glass that remained glowed faintly, the blackened walls cultivating moss and vines. Grass sprouted through what remained of the flooring. Assassin found candles in the back, which they used to compensate for electricity. Birds and bats nested in the rafters, and there was no heat to speak of.

When Ryunosuke questioned why they didn't take up someone's house instead, Gilles explained that the abandoned Apocrypha Cathedral produced a large amount of mana naturally, its holy energy the result of the lives lost in the fire that killed the entire congregation, which would help Assassin recover from his use of Last Resort. He sounded sad when he said this, which was pretty baffling to Ryunosuke, who still remembered Gilles as Caster, with his hatred of God and life in general. The idea of a bunch of Christians perishing in a fire should have stirred him, not discouraged him.

"How did the fire start?" he asked curiously. For some reason he had a massive headache, and just wanted to leave this place as soon as possible, but Gilles was right, the room _was_ swimming with mana. Maybe all this Holy energy shit was making him sick.

"The congregation was led by a young woman. This, and the extremely forward-thinking material she preached, caused much external resentment. She was told to stop preaching, but continued anyway, despite numerous death threats. They set the church on fire, and she perished, along with most of her followers; covered it up as an accident, even in a modern time like this... She was a close friend of mine. When she died, I hated the world. Such a disgusting world; one that would turn against such a pure soul. I hated everything. I wanted everyone to suffer the pain I did at her loss. I became obsessed with that concept, destroying everything pure and good, relishing the pain of others. That's why children are my favorites. An adult dies and everyone forgets a few days later, it's just a statistic. Everyone mourns children."

Ryunosuke looked up at the stained glass. It was hardly even discernible, what it had depicted in its prime. Sort-of like Gilles, whose features had become warped and ugly, retaining only a faint touch of handsomeness. Perhaps like Berserker, whose visage was split down the middle, if you viewed him at the right angle it was possible to see the beauty there. But not like _him_. Not like Ryunosuke.

Even if he was well-crafted, he'd never depicted anything nice.

"Assassin?"

"Hm?" Ryunosuke uttered, having completely lost his train of thought. Gilles was frowning, looking at him with his head tilted curiously.

"Your hands are shaking."

* * *

Whenever Arturia was busy with political matters, which was quite frequently, Archer was left to his own devices. Not being in charge of the strategizing was painful, particularly with his Master's straightforward approach, and his idealized Servant body did not require practice to properly utilize his Phantasm, or even the ordinary weapons he preferred. Given that he was not a talkative person, this was extremely boring. He could fire as many shots at the targets out back as he wanted, he'd always hit a bull's-eye. Usually one of the 'knights' would stay nearby, which didn't particularly bother him. Their paranoia was founded in logic, after all, and actually pleased him, if anything. Gawain was by far the most talkative one, at least until Saturday when Mordred joined him at the shooting range, donning ripped jeans and a cropped shirt under her jacket. It was way too cold for that, Kiritsugu's fatherly side protested intensely, but she gave him a look that challenged him to say anything. He did the usual- pulled out his pack and lit up, willfully ignoring her state of undress the best he could.

Much to his surprise, the first thing she asked him was for a cigarette. When he questioned if that was healthy for her, she glared with a dislike so intense he worried she might spontaneously combust.

"Don't treat me like a little girl," she demanded, as he acquiesced, handing her the cancer stick as she requested. "If you do, I'll make your life hell," she muttered, the cigarette bobbing in her lips as she spoke.

"My life is already hell," he said solidly, flicking the lighter for her as she drew her first inhalation.

"Sucks to be you, doesn't it," she agreed, blowing smoke up into the air and grinning with an almost thirsty satisfaction. He went back to shooting between puffs, the crack of the bullets making their mark the only fulfillment he could really claim nowadays. Gawain was leaning against a tree, reading a book with admirable attentiveness despite the loud bangs. He was due to leave tomorrow, to set up a new base for them in France- then Belvidere would babysit him in his place, oh joy.

"Do you think I'm pathetic?" Mordred asked, a question as loaded as the revolver he gripped.

"I don't know much about you."

"Hm," she muttered, not satisfied with this answer. "Give me your gun."

"What?"

"Give me the gun. Let me show you something."

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Gawain frown behind his book. Archer handed her the revolver. He noted how tense her grip was, an overcompensation for her physical weakness, but she focused so intently that it made up for the potential handicap. One, two, three times she shot, each a different target, hitting dead center every time. She handed the empty firearm back to him without looking. Kiritsugu was about to speak, but Gawain had made his way over, interrupting with a firm demand.

"Go inside, Mordred."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"Actually, I can. Go inside."

Mordred spit on the ground, her eyes burning with loathing. Kiritsugu wasn't much of a peacemaker, so he watched them with a tentative stoicism, both of them getting increasingly riled.

"Oh, of course you can boss me around. You're _Arthur's little pet,_ all up on his _dick_ all the time. I hope you go the same way as the last one," she hissed, as venomously as humanly possible. Before Archer could even react to the situation, Gawain smacked her across the face, her cheek rapidly blooming a harsh pink. She responded by laughing, Gawain by withdrawing his hand like it had been bitten. It obviously hadn't been his intention to lay hand on her, and his pride was paying the price of taking her bait.

Still laughing, Mordred made her way back to the house, hands in the pockets of her jeans. Archer watched her retreat.

"Why won't you let her do anything?" he asked quietly, when she was completely gone, had already slammed the door and left them in the cold. He heard the distortion of his voice through the curse- 'him.' Why won't you let _him_ do anything? He wondered what Mordred looked like in Gawain's eyes- probably very similar to his own appearance, which was undoubtedly upsetting to him.

"Know your place, Servant. Your duty is to Arthur," Gawain responded, sounding worn out.

"Very well," Kiritsugu agreed, not seeing the purpose in arguing. Gawain was obviously done with this conversation, and he wouldn't push it; after all the other man would be gone for a few days anyway.

But being treated like a dog was starting to take its toll. What a difficult family. They were every bit as bad as the Einzberns…but Mordred was no Irisviel, he reminded himself, thinking of her eyes when she gripped that gun.

It would be imprudent to treat her as such.

* * *

"Sensing the presence of other Servants is an interesting feeling, isn't it," Saber said to Lancer, who wrinkled his nose and looked obstinately away. "We seem to have weaker Phantasms, but stronger connections to one-another than the Servants of our universe. But this is troubling…"  
"So you've noticed?" Lancer said under his breath. "Their prana, that is."

"Yes, I'm a bit concerned about that."

"What are you talking about?" Gil interrupted, already irritated by this country. His French was incredibly limited, and Zayda having the upper-hand in communication was disconcerting, as well as the Servants talking about things he couldn't personally relate to.

"All of us emit different prana. There are ways to conceal mana and Noble Phantasms from detection as you already know. I imagine the two we have stumbled on don't particularly care at this point, suggesting they didn't harm each other very much in their first battle," Lancer explained calmly.

"So what's the big issue?" he asked condescendingly, staring at Zayda's ass while she talked to a man at the front desk of the rental shop. Zayda herself had been acting incredibly off as well, really uncomfortably cheerful, as though her situation was suddenly not a hostage one.

"There were clearly two other Servants in this country, one has even moved south, to Italy…but they are giving off the same prana…almost," Saber said, raising his eyebrows in amusement. "However, one of them is extremely faint…almost dead."

"The same Servant with separate bodies, perhaps?"

"No," Lancer said resolutely. "No, it's definitely not that."

Zayda returned, holding the keys to their new vehicle and jingling them cheerfully.

"Stop acting creepy," Gil demanded. She tilted her head, a goofy smile on her face that didn't suit her at all.

"What's wrong, _Goldy_? Can't handle someone other than you in a good mood?"

"No," he said bluntly. "I like it better when you're pissed off. Also, you're driving," he ordered as they exited the building, Lancer looking for the car with the plate matching their certificate.

When they'd packed the absurd amount of luggage Gil had required into the trunk (most of it carried by Saber, who, despite not being Gil's Servant, took the abuse with little complaint) Gil and Lancer climbed in back. Zayda drove like a maniac on the way to their hotel and developed unprecedented road rage. Saber wrote notes in what Gil referred to as his 'little black book of people he wanted to kill' and chuckled every once in a while, apparently amused by his theories. Lancer watched the countryside, the ride silent until Zayda (or whoever the hell had taken over her body) turned on the radio and started blasting something very loud and incomprehensible and _French_.

Their hotel, once they finally found it, was swanky and exorbitant, and Gil still found it insufficient. Tokiomi seemed content; at least, after Saber and his Master went into their conjoining room; he pulled out Gil's laptop and started performing searches for people Gil had never heard of while the golden-haired man looked over his shoulder, snorting as each result seemed to come up empty. Before that, it took Lancer a good hour to figure out how to convert the arabic text into Japanese, despite the fact that the Grail should have naturally nullified the language barrier between them. Babili finally realized it was because the man was technologically incompetent, not because he was confused about translations. Use of the computer seemed to be a desperate measure, although Tohsaka refused to admit it due to his rigid pride. When he'd managed to find an adequate search engine, the Servant began to search for what he could only assume were people.

Search: 遠坂 時臣

None of the results seemed to show what he wanted.

Search: 衛宮 切嗣

Still nothing.

Search: 雨生 龍之介

A bunch of surly looking Japanese men, none of whom elicited any reac tion from him.

Search: Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi

Oh look, an English name! A bunch of rich-looking European men appeared in a photograph, but 'Kayneth Archibald' was removed from the search results to broaden the field. Whatever information Lancer found about them was insufficient, after a while he gave up. He seemed slightly encouraged, but more baffled than anything else.

Search: 言峰 綺礼

Nothing. Lancer backtracked the second part and hit enter again.

Search: 言峰 璃正

He leaned forward, eyes widening. Gil looked at the image result- he existed, a priest apparently, with massive untrimmed eyebrows and a cheerful face. The results didn't extend much further than that- the church had a website but it required a password, Lancer was unable to log into it.

Search: Justacheit von Einzbern

Nothing. "I didn't expect anything, they're too secretive," he whispered to himself, typing in another name, this time almost hesitant to hit 'enter.'

Search: 間桐 臓硯

This time he hit gold. Whoever's gibberish name this was, the family was filthy rich, and '間桐 臓硯' was apparently an uncommon name…not that any of it looked normal to Gil. There was an image of the family- a rather sinister looking old man standing behind an unkempt young father and his small, timid-looking son. After a few articles he was able to ascertain that the hideous patriarch was deceased as of five years ago, succeeded by the blue-haired dude, who looked slightly less depressed in more recent photographs. This information was suddenly upsetting to Lancer, who finally opened his mouth dryly, only managing one quiet sentence:

"We don't…exist…in this universe…do we…"

* * *

Macedonia and Diarmuid had agreed to meet in a small town in Germany, to separate their encounter from the incident in Nantes. Diarmuid and Alexander had similar pigheaded stubbornness in this regard- they both wanted to plan their battle, meet face-to-face, and combat 'honorably' in the event that this resorted to blows, according to their emails.

Kayneth Archibald was sick of fighting honorably. These men were idiots, and would once again get him killed.

They'd chosen an abandoned building to meet up in, in the event that things got violent; a derelict school separated from the countryside. Caster was still fuming about the other Servant's name- there was no El-Melloi that would have dared challenge him to a battle like this, and his theory that the other Servants were all people he knew was temporarily shattered.

The building was disgusting and moldy, and had a creepy air to it. At some point, a rat skittered down the hallway and he screamed like a banshee. O'dyna tried unsuccessfully to calm him down, further invoking his wrath.

"Shouldn't I set up some barriers?" he complained. "I'm a Caster, not one suited to violent combat. This is a Rider-type Servant! What if they fight dishonorably, like Kiritsugu?"

"Alexander isn't like that," he said resolutely. "He claims to have full trust in his Servant. We aren't here to fight, we're here to talk, and if this does evolve into blows, I have full faith in you, Caster."

Before Caster could retort that he'd trusted Arturia too, he heard the sound of engines outside, wondering if their method of transport was truly as base as a glorified motorbike. He looked out the window of the classroom they stood in- two figures were getting off their rides, both of them rather imposing in build. Just as he'd dreaded, Macedonia was the spitting image of Alexander the Great, but his Servant was nobody he knew, a long curtain of dark hair escaping from his helmet when he pulled it off. Both were dressed like bikers, while he was in his Servant clothes and Diarmuid looked like he was going to a job interview. Clearly, they'd outclassed their opponents, but Archibald was extremely jaded to appearances by now.

They met in the hallway, the two Masters greeting each other like they were old friends. Rider glowered a good three feet behind, avoiding eyecontact with everyone, but especially Caster. It took a while for either of the Servants to do anything, and Caster only spoke when the other two became quiet and stepped back.

"Who are you?" Kayneth Archibald said dangerously. "You, who has the nerve to call himself Lord El-Melloi-"

"Don't you recognize me?" the other Servant said, with a strange softness. His large green eyes had looked empty before, but they were now plagued with insecurity. It still took him a moment, and even then he wasn't sure. This man was tall, heroically built, and had an air of maturity about him that almost overrode the self-doubt that emanated from his expression. He was upset at Kayneth's inability to distinguish him, but then shrugged it off with a cold indifference that seemed uncharacteristic of the name that came to mind.

"Waver…Velvet?"

"Yes," he said, firmly but quietly, as though struggling with his own resolve. He must have thought Archibald would be upset.

And he was right.

" _You_?! Succeeded _me_? Such a treacherous irony… _this is unacceptable_! I _refuse_ to refer to you by that name!" Caster snarled.

"If that is your wish, Archibald, please refer to me as Waver. Your title was one that was thrust upon me. It's just a name, and nothing more."

"It means _nothing_ to you?! That name, the honor of my lineage- it means _nothing_?" he screeched, clawing at his temples.

"In the end it is not your name, but your will that carries your legacy, Kayneth Archibald. I carry your name, but my legacy is that of Alexander the Great. You were neither friend nor mentor to me. I succeeded you because of my guilt. I had convinced myself…had Rider been your servant, perhaps you would have survived until the end. Even if I didn't like you, I couldn't celebrate your death, so I aided your family in recovery."

He didn't want to hear it. Caster's form liquefied, exploded into thousands of little bullets, the form he had taken against Archer. Rider, true to his class, was extremely fast- perhaps not the speed of Archer under his time-manipulation Phantasm, but definitely more agile, and not a single bullet hit him. Whatever Noble Phantasms Rider possessed, however, he was concealing them, fighting purely evasively. Time and time again, Kayneth tried to kill him, Diarmuid protesting futilely and Alex cheering like this was a sporting event. The silver liquid that comprised his body was learning quickly, but for some reason, Rider continued to evade its evolving attacks, until Caster spread himself thin and enveloped the entire hallway, contracting like overstretched elastic to encase him in a wave.

Waver's face was stoic as the inside of the bubble became lined with spikes- a living iron maiden. When he tried to crush him, however, his liquidized body wouldn't move. He immediately suspected Diarmuid again, but the Master hasn't moved from his place at the other end of the hallway.

It was Rider, then. Rider, who looked at him with a cold pity, his hand raised as though asserting his control. He was now dressed in his Servant garb, and then it hit him-

_No. No, how dare you pity me-_

Archibald withdrew at a distance, reforming his body.

"You…"

"Inherited one final thing from you as well," he replied calmly. "I cannot take its form, as you can, but I can still summon or control it. We share a Noble Phantasm. My control of it is stronger than yours, but your utilization is more versatile."

"So I'm _useless_ against you?" Caster said, his eyes widening, a vein in his temple pulsing from the thought of it.

"Caster!" Diarmuid shouted. "You have other techniques, please, if you must fight, then-"

" _Does it matter_?! My birthright, shattered by this boy, who has usurped me despite my denial of his potential…"

"I am not a stronger Servant than you," Rider said stoically. "I am actually an incredibly weak Servant in comparison. But this war is not always about power. You are playing a complicated game of rock, paper, scissors. Paper is flimsy, but it still covers rock."

"You tell me as if I don't know this already. Circumstance, alliances, luck…those are what truly turn the odds in a war, but you've still won! If you can control my physical body, you can kill me, right? Why don't you end me?"

"Because. I need you, Caster."

It sounded like it pained him to say it, just as much as it pained Caster to hear it.

" _You_ need _me_?!"

"I have already admitted I am a weak Servant, haven't I? Besides the Volumen Hydragyrum and an advanced riding ability, residual from my friendship with the previous Rider, I have two Noble Phantasms which cannot even be utilized by me."

"That's ridiculous! You can't benefit from your own Noble Phantasms?"

"No. 'Reversi memoria' can give a person honest memories- the burdens left behind by past lives. Or, by changing a person's perception of history I can confuse them and defeat them dishonorably. Mental pollution can always be staved off, and it's by no means a trump card. It's meant to be used in conjunction with the second Phantasm."

"Which is," Caster hissed impatiently.

"Surge per me.' I can turn those who respect me into complete Servants of the Rider class. My true potential lies, not within myself, but in what I can bring out in others."

Caster stalled, looking at the man before him. He was bitter in appearance, as though his own power was a pathetic disappointment to him, but a mere ten feet away, his Master stood, his own insecurity betraying his brutish face.

"Then why haven't you chosen to empower Alexander Macedonia? If you return his memories and give him Servant Status-"

"Then I could once again lose the only friend I ever had."

Nobody said anything, not even Alex, who stared at the ground. Kayneth exhaled, frozen breath escaping into the hall like a silvery cloud. It was Diarmuid who finally cut the silence.

"Macedonia. What do you seek from the Grail?"

Alex chuckled nervously.

"I'm not really sure yet. So far, I've considered the war itself a great opportunity! I look at it that, it's blessing enough to be alive! But there are things that I understand little of, no matter how far I travel, how many people I meet…it makes my blood pump to think of those things!"

"I see. Alexander Macedonia- will you form an alliance with us?"

"Huh?" the giant sputtered, preoccupied. "Align myself…with you?"

Diarmuid nodded resolutely. "I believe your cause and methods to be noble, and I want to prove my usefulness to my Servant. Please allow me to assist you, until the time comes were we must separate."

Macedonia opened his mouth stupidly, unsure of how to respond to this. Everyone looked to someone else for assurance, and nobody met eyes. Caster was focused intently on Rider with a resentful sort of awe. Rider stared resolutely at Alex, who was dumbfoundedly watching Diarmuid, who had turned towards Caster nervously.

"Well, Rider? What do you think?" Alexander finally asked, the two of them meeting eyes. They both looked somewhat hurt, Archibald noted, but then El-Melloi II smiled at his Master, Macedonia also brushing aside the wounded feeling, and for some reason Kayneth felt envious. There had never been a time in Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi's life that someone was able to put aside their feelings for his sake, or vice-versa.

"How much do you know about your Master?" Waver asked Diarmuid. Caster now focused intently on the cursed Adonis, who was biting his lip nervously.

"He claims to have known a man similar in appearance and situation to me, from his own universe. I'm not sure I believe we're truly the same person, but I trust him."

Rider nodded, expression unreadable.

"Very well then. Diarmuid. When the time comes for us to fight the others, I will give you that man's power, but not his memories. Are we all in agreement?"

Alex and Kayneth bore uncomfortable expressions, but the former shook it off, pumping his fist forward. "I agree!" he roared enthusiastically. "Let's not waste time!"

"I agree as well," Diarmuid said with a polite nod.

"I don't particularly care. If you choose not to kill me, that's your own miscalculation," Caster sighed.

What a drag. Following his own student around, imprisoned at the mercy of his previous Servant. He'd definitely done something wrong in his past life, but he still wasn't sure what.

* * *

Over the course of the week, Lance did everything he could to help Berserker recover. To his surprise, it worked, for the most part. Kariya took every distraction thrown at him as an opportunity to push the events of Nantes to the back of his mind.

"Is Braconid draining you?" was the most he said of it.

"No. Does it pain you to hold back?"

"No."

"And Assassin?"

Kariya suddenly got a rather nasty smile on his face. It was really weird how he could switch like that, from a normal, decent guy, to one of those psychopathic heroes who doesn't mind that what they're doing is awful, so long as the evil they're fighting is just as awful.

"I'll make him suffer soon, in the worst way possible."

Lance didn't doubt it, nor did he want to think about it. He didn't mention it again, for that very reason.

Their next move was entirely dependent on the other Masters- it did not benefit him personally to seek them out, due to his extremely limited magical circuits and Berserker's lack of enhancement. He was also tight on finances- not poor by any means, but not rich enough to spend exorbitantly. The inns they stayed at were cheap, as was traveling by train, which is how they had gotten into Italy. He dressed nicely because that was what he had been taught- to always present yourself well, even if you were destitute. Kariya did not share this sentiment, but accepted the things he was given. Lance bought him a warmer jacket and a nice pair of jeans to replace his windbreaker and sweats, claiming that wearing the same clothes constantly looked suspicious; and the Servant robes were too ridiculous to get away with under normal circumstances. He also gave him a hat with earflaps, which covered the majority of his hair. The facial disfigurement and the eyepatch were unavoidable, but other than Assassin, nobody knew what his Servant looked like (he'd assumed), so they were safe, temporarily. It gave him time to plan a combat strategy; this time one that would account for the utter depravity of their potential opponents.

The village they had settled in was Pietendio, a little-known town with a spattering of mausoleums that had been closed off to tourists. It was slightly warmer here than it had been in France. The food was equally good, which seemed to be Berserker's favorite part of traveling (he was surprisingly good at cooking), until Lance got him a camera, which actually caused him to cry spontaneously. He liked Kariya, he really did, but he was still slightly unhinged, which let to quite a few baffling situations, including this one.

"I- I'm sorry?" Lance tried awkwardly. "I just remembered you saying-"

"I'm the one who should be sorry. That you do so much for me, and I can never..."

"You think your work so far hasn't repaid me?"

"Not really, no."

Lance watched him, trying to understand this man's emotions. Berserker looked like he really wanted to say something, but couldn't, his mind stirring in the same horrid way his insides did. It was painful, even to watch, but no matter what, he always kept it inside.

"You don't trust me very much, do you," Lance said softly, after letting it mull over for a few hours. They sat on a hill, overlooking the countryside and its faded winter fields. Kariya held the camera in his hands. He'd snapped some interesting pictures earlier, mostly of people on the streets, and was flipping through them, casually deleting the ones he didn't like. He wasn't crying anymore, at least. That had only lasted for a few seconds before he changed the subject and had another complete 360, and Dulac wasn't sure if he was grateful, or exasperated. He was back to moping again, however, and Lance wasn't sure he could take the secrecy for much longer.

"It's not you I don't trust," Berserker replied quietly.

"You hate yourself for some reason. But you also said something to me last week, before you chased after Assassin- that I must hate you too, to cause you such pain, even in this life."

The camera fell into the grass. Berserker put his head into his hands. "Why do you remember everything I say, but not the truth? You couldn't possibly believe me if I told you the whole story. And even if you did, you'd hate me. I would hate myself, too, if I heard it-"

"You already hate yourself," Lance said, firmly but not unkindly. "And you're under the impression that I hate you as well, or _should_ , at least. How could telling the truth change the situation for the worse?"

"Because then you'd know…then you would…treat me unkindly…"

Lance could say nothing to this. Kariya, while not the typical image of a 'tough guy,' was not the type to care about how he was treated. Either he was incredibly good at hiding it, or he honestly didn't give two fucks what people on the street thought. But it was quickly becoming apparent that it was the former disguised as the latter. The fact that he was _that_ afraid of falling out of favor was horrifying in its own way, because it was a confession of vulnerability on par with his vomiting at the sight of mass-murder, and it hadn't occurred to him until now that Kariya might see him as a friend.

Or that he might feel the same way.

"It's so selfish, Lance, God, all I want…I just want to be treated decently for once, like I'm not a piece of worm-infested shit…"

"I don't think that's selfish at all."

"But that's just it. You don't think, because you know anything about the world I came from. It's not the same place as here…maybe you thought that I was a heroic spirit or something, but I'm not. I wasn't even a real Magus where I came from. I was an idiot who did everything for people who could never understand my actions, and I told myself I didn't need anything in return, seeing them smile would be enough…"

"That's not how it works, is it?"

"It's not. But how could I sit by and watch them suffer, knowing I could have prevented it, if I had just stayed to begin with, if I hadn't run away…but it turned me so bitter and hateful, and then you…you were there…you fought for me with everything you had. You were…you were crazy, Lance, you were literally out of your mind, but you still did almost everything I asked without question, even if you were plagued with madness, even if it would kill both of us. I was dirt poor. You didn't need it, but I still couldn't feed you, or clothe you, I was too bitter to offer companionship, too frightened of you to comfort you. We spent weeks sitting across from each other in an alleyway, just staring at each other."

"I was…your Servant?"

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I know it's insane, I know it makes no sense. I wanted to believe I just dreamt it, that those memories were false, but why would I dream of such a cruel existence? Who would want that? I saw you as nothing but a tool, though, so please don't pity me, or think I'm some Saint. Even though I told myself…'I'd rather let my friends be happy with each other, instead of miserable with me,' in the end, that wasn't what I wanted. My body was a useless, desecrated husk, I felt nothing but pain and disgust, and nobody could love me. People on the street recoiled when they saw me. My own family hated me above all else. You were the only one I had left, and I mistreated you."

"You were lonely," Lance said softly. "And even if I was there, even if it _was_ me…I couldn't understand you. So please don't think…"

Lance hung his head, allowed the curtain of hair to protect his face from Berserker's gaze. He didn't need to be seen as weak by this man, who had endured far worse than he had. It was a wonder he hadn't shut down entirely, because Lance had. He'd turned his back on the thought of anything better existing; he still did everything he could for one person, who would, like Kariya's loved ones, never understand why.

"Please don't think I'm better than you in that respect. I did those nice things for you out of guilt. I was…going to sacrifice you, because I saw you as a tool as well. I pitied you, so I wanted to give you a nice life before I betrayed you."

Kariya said nothing. Lance didn't dare look at him.

"I was wrong. You're my friend, Kariya. Probably the only one I have left. I viewed myself as a tool too, one who was undeserving of friendship. So the thought that we were both expendable, that neither of us should achieve our wish...it never bothered me until now."

Berserker was calm once more. Dulac spared a glance at him, and couldn't tell if he looked angry or understanding. It was intensely curious, whatever his gaze was, as though he was searching for something.

"What do you really want from the Grail?" Kariya asked.

"Nothing."

Kariya's eyebrows shot up.

"I am fighting entirely for the sake of Arturia, so that she may claim her wish. It was my intention to protect her until I lost- either by her hands or another's. This was to be my redemption. Then I would have fulfilled my purpose, and I could kill myself peacefully."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And emergency phonecall between Archer and Rider puts a dent in Gil's plans. Assassin starts killing again, but keeps hearing voices, the crazy bastard. Berserker and Lance prepare to d-d-d-d-duueeel! Gil tells team Saber to go kill team Caster/Rider, but (not so) little Waver has a plan up his sleeves...


	5. Trust me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emergency phonecall between Archer and Rider puts a dent in Gil's plans. Assassin starts killing again, but keeps hearing voices, the crazy bastard. Berserker and Lance prepare to d-d-d-d-duueeel! Gil tells team Saber to go kill team Caster/Rider, but (not so) little Waver has a plan up his sleeves...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep in mind that these are pretty much all unreliable narrators, and their knowledge is limited to what they experience, so their thoughts and what they say won't always spell things out right away. Some of them are outright liars at times. Someone mentioned that Lance claims to be a shitty Magus when he was at least good enough to break Arturia's curse. Well, the dude's obviously hiding –something.- We are getting some hints as to what this chapter.
> 
> I felt kinda bad when scripting this that Kiritsugu's call and Waver's assault both took place in the same chapter, but basically, those teams weren't that far from each other, and European transport makes it not that hard to move between countries. Also I don't want this to move slow, even though it's long it's not supposed to be -boring- so I try to have at least some action in every chapter.
> 
> Speaking of unreliable narrators though, Kariya PoV is easily the most entertaining for me to write.
> 
> I imagine Caster's environment to look somewhat like Walpurgis Night from megukamedukas. It imitates the city but it's essentially a really confusing maze, based off his RL ability to turn a hotel into a deathtrap. He has another useful ability that will be revealed next chapter. We're also starting to see the true nature of Berserker's second NP, and how it manifests will be revealed in future chapters as well.

Shortly after Arturia, Archer, and Gawain finally established their Saint-Nazaire-situated quarters, Archer dropped an unexpected bomb on them. They were just now unpacking, Gawain and Archer sharing a suite while Arturia received her own.

"There are three Servants in this country," he said calmly, practically the moment she crossed into their room. "And two of them are together."

"What?!" Arturia hissed.

"Three Servants, two traveling in conjunction with each other, to the north, one with a weak signal to the east- almost undetectable."

"An alliance?"

"I'm afraid so."

She watched him, his expression clearly unsettled and irritated, as though he was thinking very hard about this. It didn't make sense to Arturia, because the idea of an alliance was actually a smart one, and not that far-fetched of a concept. But this had been his behavior from the get-go- paranoid and uncomfortably genre-savvy, as though he already knew everything that was going to happen.

"There have been a few missing children reports around Orléans," Gawain said. "Perhaps the murderer settled there."

"Most likely," Archer confirmed, looking troubled still. "That's definitely the one we need to take out first."

"There's something you're not telling me," Arturia stated firmly, before he could get them off track. Gawain took a seat in the hotel's armchair, looking out the window as though forbidding himself involvement- he'd been cold to Archer for much of this week, but she hadn't questioned it. Gawain hadn't been the same for a while now, even if he put on that face most of the time. For some reason, she felt angered at Archer for his sake, knowing how much it hurt him to go on like this.

"This has something to do with your familiarity with Caster and Diarmuid, doesn't it?

No response.

"You have an uncanny knowledge of everything! If there's something you know that we don't, spit it out now. You're not doing anyone any favors by keeping quiet."

"You still have O'dyna and Macedonia's phone numbers, don't you?" he asked quietly, ignoring her demand.

"I do. What does this have to do with your dishonesty?"

"Call Alexander and ask him the name of his Servant."

" _Why_?'

"I'll explain to you in the event I'm correct. If you can't bother to trust me, then you'll die in this war. That's all I can say right now."

Over by the window, Gawain's fingers twitched momentarily. Then-

"Listen to him, Arthur. See what he has to say."

She sighed, pulling out her cellphone and searching for the number. There it was- Alexander Macedonia; she'd gotten his information through a contact spell cast before the summoning. Contact spells weren't a requirement and most Mages wouldn't use them, but it was a good way of weeding out who was a decent person and would play by the rules. They were also limited to a certain distance, so had there been Servants located outside of Europe, it would have been very difficult to pick up on them.

She listened intently as the phone rang, almost ready to hang up and call again, but he picked up at the last moment, booming voice reverberating across the room.

"Is this Arthur? Coming to challenge me at last, are you?!"

"Unfortunately not, Mr. Macedonia. I'm calling to inquire about your Servant."

"My Servant… _what_? You want to spoil the surprise?!"

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to…but, please, Alexander, would you tell me your Servant's name?"

" _That_? Oh, well… _why is that important_?!"

Archer confiscated her phone carelessly, before she could even protest. Not wanting to cause a fuss, she fumed silently as he started speaking very firmly, as though berating a child. "Mr. Macedonia, please put Waver on the line," he requested calmly, eliciting a confused sound on the other end. Arturia held her tongue, if only because the demand and change of voice had thrown him off, and he had become oddly compliant.

"You er…know him?" he asked, sounding baffled. "Well, if you…insist…Rider, there's uh…someone who wants to speak to you…"

Arturia watched Archer's posture stiffen when another man's sharp voice cut through the line, apparently not recognizing the tone.

"Who is this," 'Waver' demanded coldly.

"Kiritsugu Emiya, Master of Saber in the fourth Holy Grail war of Fuyuki City."

A sharp intake escaped the phone. Arturia looked over to Gawain, whose expression was just plain alarmed now. It took Waver a moment to collect himself.

"Are you on speaker, Emiya?"

"I am. Is that a problem?"

"No. No, it's not. Does she know?"

"Know what," Arturia hissed.

"I'm getting to that later. Listen, Waver. Are you one of the two Servants located in Northern France?"

"I am not. The four of us are in Germany."

"Four?"

"I've formed an alliance with Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi and his Master."

It was Archer's turn to be uncomfortably awkward. He was hesitant with his next words.

"Is he in the room?"

"He's not."

Archer breathed a sigh of relief. "Listen, Waver. I am not asking you form an alliance with me, particularly if you have already aligned yourself with Caster. But the remaining four Servants are dangerous, if not in power then at least in terms of personality. I assume by the change in your voice you outlived me, correct?"

"I did."

"Can you offer any insight on the likelihood of an alliance between the remaining four? I will tell you what I know, but it's not much."

"So you agree that we were all summoned to this world? That's bothersome indeed. But if the rest of them have been summoned into this universe, I can only say for certain that Uryu was unlikely to form a bond with other Masters- his methods were too disturbing for anyone else to consider."

"Kotomine betrayed the other two, however, so there is a chance of him aligning with Uryu."

"Or perhaps of an unwilling alliance?"

"Which brings me back to square one- I have no idea who is who among the remaining Servants."

"Undoubtedly this is upsetting to you," the man on the other line replied stoically.

"Yes. I do appreciate the insight, however. To be honest I wasn't expecting this much cooperation."

"I don't begrudge you for your methods when I understand…well I don't need to go into the details. You know what happened and so do I. Listen, what do you plan to do about this?" the other voice prompted bluntly.

"We are heading east to destroy the Servant there, while he is weakened. His energy seems to be stagnant, but there have been suspicious murders reported in Orleans. I have a nasty feeling that it's Uryu, which could lead to more murder if he's not stamped out quickly."

"Then we will intercept the other two- assuming they are going to pick off another Master, perhaps this will get them to separate instead. At the very least it's a fair fight."

"I see. But regardless of who the remaining four are, in what combination, they are not to be taken lightly. I'm sure you know this by now. Kotomine is ruthless, and Matou will not go down without a fight. Tohsaka is similar Caster in terms of stubbornness, but is probably the easiest to appeal to. Unfortunately that's not saying much."

One of the names caused Gawain to start a little. Archer didn't notice, but Arturia tried to catch his eye. He didn't look at her, but at Archer, who was staring intently at a painting on the wall as the other Servant spoke. Listening to this was making her increasingly resentful. He was being so casual with this man, talking about things that made absolutely no sense, and like Caster, the other man seemed to know exactly what he was talking about.

"Understood. I appreciate the feedback, Emiya."

"Thank you once more, Waver Velvet."

"Don't take this as a favor to you. I'm looking out for the wellbeing of my Servant and myself. When the time comes, I'll fight you as well."

"Of course."

"Good luck, Emiya. You raised a good son."

"G- good…luck."

Beep.

She watched him run his hands across the perpetual stubble sprouting from his chin, holding the cell phone in the other as though apprehensive about having to give it back.

"Archer," she said coldly. He slowly turned towards her, as Arturia gazed at the top of her hand. It was shaking slightly, and she lowered it to meet his eyes. The command spell started to glow. The look in his eyes was resigned- he knew that his deceitfulness had prompted this, and he was prepared to accept whatever punishment resulted from it.

"From now on, you must always tell me the truth when it's asked of you," she demanded, a third of the spell flaking away, leaving a vague white mark in its place.

"Yes, Master," he agreed. His expression was somewhere between resignation and bitterness. "What would you like to ask of me?"

"Tell me the story of the last Grail you fought for."

* * *

It seemed ill-fated that a man so determined to live and a man so determined to die would become friends.

Kariya couldn't think about much without getting upset nowadays, but he still had a sense of irony. On the other hand, his optimism was not routed in rationality, even he knew this, he just staved off the other thoughts even if they were determined to eat at him like the worms under his skin. Lancelot (he internally referred to him as this) was so taciturn and emotionally reserved sometimes that he imagined it would be difficult to get along with him under any other circumstances. It was pretty hard to relate him to the screaming monster that had tormented him before, but that was a given. The black knight had been a manifestation of his insanity, and his other emotions had been erased. Was that nice? He'd catch himself wondering if mad enhancement hurt as much as cognizance and slap himself- no, no, _just do something else_ , and then he'd make an outlandish request and Lancelot would look at him like he was from another planet.

He thought about Assassin sometimes, and how fucked in the head that kid was. Was he a kid? He didn't know, the guy looked pretty young, but he couldn't have been much younger than Kariya, who continuously forgot how old he was because he looked old enough to be his own grandfather.

Ugh. No. Bad thoughts.

Assassin, yes, _that guy_ , God he was despicable, he was everything Kariya hated in the world. He was a good as dead, though, what was more concerning was the plethora of Servants that had tracked them to France. Seriously? What a mess. He was pretty stupid, but Assassin was an _idiot_. It wasn't so much that they were at a disadvantage right now, because they were actually ahead of the others, but rather, that Berserker didn't want to fight. What was the purpose in fighting? Why had he even been summoned to this world? He'd told himself and Lance that he wanted the Grail to undo his mistakes, but he knew that in the end that was wishful thinking. He wasn't going to win. Even if he did win, Lancelot would sacrifice him. He couldn't begrudge the guy for that, though, because he was basically doing exactly what Kariya had spent a good year doing, and he'd be hard-pressed to change his mind when he was that set on suicide, for _her_ sake.

Arturia.

Arturia? Kiritsugu's Servant? That was so weird. This was getting increasingly painful to think about. Would it even make sense if he wasn't half braindead? That was a frustrating thought, trying to comprehend if he should be able to comprehend under normal circumstances, no, there was no way he could figure that out. All he knew was, Arturia existed, Lancelot existed, and he existed. And he'd never met Assassin or his Master before, but they still gave him a familiar vibe. There had been a murderer in Fuyuki City around the time of his return, a really nasty one, who did all sorts of fucked-up shit to his victims. Wasn't that a really weird coincidence? Was he being too paranoid?

"Are you upset, Berserker?" Lancelot asked him, once more reminding him that there was a real world that existed outside his limited headspace. That's right- they were headed to the mausoleums, to lay traps. They had an entire battle strategy made up already, a really confusing one, he just went along with it because he trusted Lance's judgment.

"Eheheheh. No, what gives you that idea?"

" _Kariya_."

"Your friend Arturia is taking place in this war, right? Do you know any of the others?" he spat out, completely disregarding his earlier attempt to pretend he wasn't preoccupied.

"No."

"You're so smart about this though. You claim to be a terrible Magus but you already seem to know what's going on…"

"This isn't my first Grail war," he said blankly.

"It…it _isn't_? I…you mean…you were in the last one too?"

"I was. The fact that I was chosen _then_ was astonishing enough. This time around it's just plain distressing."

"But…what happened? If you survived to the end…but…you didn't obtain the Grail?"

Lance had stopped walking. His shoulders were tense. Kariya watched his lips draw into a straight line, his expression darkening.

"I won't ask any more," Berserker assured him, trying desperately to revoke his question. Mistake, mistake _, idiot, you shouldn't have said that_.

"It's unfair, that I should keep things from you when you told me the truth, right?"

"Ah…I…suppose. But you can lie if it makes you feel better. Sometimes it's better just not to think about things that upset you, right?"

"Not thinking about things doesn't make them go away."

"Yeah but thinking won't fix your problems either."

"True. In that case, I'll take your advice."

He continued on, Berserker now stopped in his tracks.

"Wait…hey, no…now I want to know!" Kariya yelped.

Lance laughed a little bit. It was a nice change, hearing him express some sort of amusement, even if there was genuine pain behind it. They stopped at the entrance to a tomb, boarded up with rotting wood, and Lance put his hand behind his head.

"Ah, maybe I'll tell you later, Berserker. Let's just enjoy our little holiday while it lasts."

"So we can get something to eat after this, right?"

"Why do you like food so much? You're a Servant, you don't even need food. And you have the biggest appetite for someone so skinny."

"But I couldn't eat solid food for a year before this...I just like to be able to taste things without vomiting. H-hey don't get that pitiful look on your face, ok? I don't need pity!"

Lance's silence as he worked said it all: yeah you do.

"You don't get it, though. I'm just happy to be alive again, and away from that awful world I came from."

Lance had successfully broken down the entrance- fortunately nobody really guarded the ruins that much anymore.

"Every world is awful in its own right, isn't it?" he said quietly.

"You're so depressing sometimes! Even if you hate everything, just try to think of the one thing left you fight for. That kind of morose giving-up-on-life is unacceptable."

"I swear you'll be the death of me."

"Well, hopefully not literally, right?"

This time Kariya's word vomit actually managed to make both of them feel horrible, so he elected not to talk anymore, at least not for the next ten minutes.

* * *

"Sei un...~cane bastardo~!" Gil sang in the most stereotypically insulting Italian accent he could manage, waving his hand dismissively.

All of you. _Bow_ before me.

"How eloquent. Now say it without the book."

"No," he replied defensively. "I'm not talking to locals anyway, so why should it matter? They're all 'cane bastardo.' Why waste my time?"

"We don't know the native language of the Master."

"So? We're going to kill him, not have a tea party. Besides, if you really want to tell him how I plan to kill him in his native tongue, go right ahead, that's all on you."

Zayda had made another complete 360 in personality. She now seemed to be uncomfortably attracted to him (who could blame her, though, really?) and spent most of her time attempting to be useful while subtly seducing him. The shift in personality extended all the way to her wardrobe, which now featured the most skintight, impossibly cut dresses he had ever laid eyes on. Gil's mindset had been that there was no set of tits worthy of his eyes, but he'd been wrong apparently. She certainly wasn't as boring as he initially thought, and she wasn't _helpless_ either. This bothered him for multiple reasons- one, she was a _woman_ , and the thought of her being smarter than him (a linguistics genius, even) was really pissing him off. Two, if she _wasn't_ boring, he might get attached to her, which was bullshit- Gil had no friends and he wanted to keep it that way. Three- as soon as he got used to her, she would switch personalities again, and he had no idea why. Four- some of those personalities wanted to kill him, and he wasn't sure which ones. Basically, he'd made a god-awful mistake aligning himself with this woman, and all for Saber, whom he couldn't even speak to alone- Lancer and Zayda made sure of that.

"You want me to die, don't you? But Saber will die too. Didn't you want to steal him from me?" she'd asked earlier, looking at him coyly.

"Who told you _that_ , _Saber_? Tell him not to flatter himself. A Servant is nothing but a tool, and if he offers me amusement perhaps I'll take care of him. Right now, Lancer is amusing enough. If he outlives his usefulness, I'll find another weapon to replace him."

He –had- thought multiple times of just killing Zayda, taking Saber, and just getting on with it, but really, that was irresponsible, and he was pretty sure Lancer would have none of that. How was he to know which one was better against the other Servants? Might as well keep the other two around as a spare, in the event that Lancer failed. Lancer was a disobedient little snot, but his suffering was amusing as hell, and Gil hadn't wasted a single command spell on him yet, so he wasn't -that- treacherous.

The two Servants were also being very unsubtle lately. They knew a battle was coming up, and kept making offhanded threats to each other that suggested they each wanted the other to die more than their opponent. It was unlikely, however, that either of them should die against a singular opponent. They were two of the strongest classes, after all.

It was pretty much going to be a one-sided slaughter, if anything.

This peace of mind was almost immediately shattered by Lancer, however, as he entered the room with a noncommittal worry etched in his brow and waited patiently for them to acknowledge him.

"What do you want, Tohsaka," Gil said, calling him by his human name only because it always made him flinch.

"Two Servants have breached the city," he said tiredly, like a dejected weatherman. It was so unmoving that Gil didn't even register what he said at first. Zayda's horrified expression was what ticked him off, the metaphorical cassette tape in his head rewinding Lancer's sentence for a replay before the horrible words actually made sense.

" _What_ did you say?" His undertone was dangerous- Gil was not in the mood to be fucked with right now.

"I believe I stated myself quite clearly, Master."

Gil spared a glance at Zayda. Her eyes now looked glazed-over and empty, as though she wasn't quite here right now. He'd seen this once before, it had heralded another personality taking over. Her reaction to difficult situations seemed must be switching to personalities better suited to the issue at hand, it was beginning to make sense now. But who the fuck _cared_? They'd let two Servants sneak up on them? _Two_?

"How the _hell_ did you not sense them?" Gil spat, focusing on the dull expression of Tohsaka Tokiomi.

"One of them is Caster. He concealed their Prana and only lowered it when they were already close. There's a really complex territory set up on the outside of town. The fact that he could make one that quickly is disconcerting."

Gil looked at him dangerously, tapping his fingernails on the sofa cushion.

"Oh, _I see_ …and Saber?"

"He went ahead to stall them."

Hassan-i-Sabbah was already on her feet, opening the divider to her suite and rummaging around for things- her weapons, most likely.

"I'm joining him. He can't fight proficiently if he's too distant from me," she said loudly from the other room. Lancer looked at him- it was a hateful, disgusted expression, like he knew exactly what Gil was thinking.

"We're drawing them to the other side of the city, to force their separation. 1-on-1 is more practical than 2-on-2," Gil assured her, when she came back into his room, a leather jacket now concealing most of her previously exposed skin. She was fussing with her hair, band between her clenched teeth as she pulled it back into a high ponytail.

"Hurry up, then!" Zayda demanded as the tie was secured. "I'm taking the car. Come up with something to draw one of them away, then."

Oh, so it was 'serious Zayda' this time? How _boring_. She turned away, throwing her purse over her shoulder, and headed out the door. Gil did the exact opposite of her request- stretched like a lazy cat and smiled smugly at Tokiomi. He watched Zayda slam the door, her footsteps silent as she retreated. When he was sure that she was a good distance away, he stood up and shut his already packed suitcase, Italian dictionary in his other hand and still open to the insults page.

"Well Tohsaka? Are you ready to go to Italy?"

Silence and moral protest. So _predictable_.

"Don't give me that bullshit expression. You've been hoping all along that Saber would die. I'm not getting caught up in this clusterfuck. If Zayda and Saber are strong, they'll survive. The weak trash will take each other out; I'm not concerning myself with their wellbeing."

"How do you know the one in Italy isn't trash as well?"

"Hm? Well, they're _all_ trash, obviously. But I'm pretty sure we've both figured it out by now- the southbound ones were the victors of the previous battle, which is why the one in central France is in such a pathetic state. And there's yet another piece of crap over to the west to take _them_ out, right? That's too many Servants in one fucking shithole of a country. Let them duke it out, and I'll take the winner."

Tohsaka still looked upset. It hit him then, and Gil laughed, holding the book against his gut to restrain it.

" _I see_ …you wanted to kill him _yourself_ , didn't you, Lancer? I wouldn't get my hopes up, though. Revenge is a romantic notion best-suited to fools. You only get what you want when stop seeking it. He's right, though, about your naiveté. You think he was unjustified to betray you and seek his own ideals. But wouldn't you do the same to someone else, if they stood in the way of _your_ goal?"

" _What kind of man do you take me for_?" Tohsaka said lowly.

"The one he appears at face value, I suppose. A Hypocrite, just like the rest of us."

* * *

_Why am I not recovering?_ Assassin mused. Gilles was not a trained Magus, but he was naturally talented, and he had an impressive book of magecraft at his disposal, which was not explaining why the atmospheric mana was not absorbing properly.

He wasn't actually that parched on prana- Last Resort had taken a lot, but not enough to explain why his mana wasn't completely concealed from detection. Neither of them really knew that much about magecraft, but the knowledge instilled upon his summoning was enough for him to understand that this _just wasn't right._

The book, which had been recovered from his Master's house after the initial summoning, was on Gilles at all times, so they fortunately still had it for reference. It was dark magecraft, called for unconventional methods- human and animal sacrifice, things that Assassin typically enjoyed, but it just wasn't working properly. Ryunosuke started venturing off into the city and kidnapping kids to use in the rituals, but it still wasn't fixing things. In fact, it was making it worse.

 _You're a disgusting piece of shit,_ a thought at the back of his head hissed, like some kind of vocal tumor. This too, had been happening a lot lately. Ryunosuke, crazy as he might be, wasn't the type to insult himself or hear voices. He looked down at the child he'd kidnapped, a little girl with wavy hair and goopy eyes, holding his knife to her throat. For some reason, his arm kept drifting downward, like it was heavy or something, so he switched hands.

"S'il vous plaît," she whispered, almost completely resigned to her own death. "S- s'il vous-"

"C'est bon," he assured her, the knife vanishing for a moment as he pinched her cheek, forcing himself to smile like the demon he was, trying to achieve the manic rush that should come from slicing her neck open just when she thought he'd changed his mind. Her momentary relief made way for terror and she shrieked loudly. The scream quickly faded to a helpless gurgle, the crows nesting in the rafters cawing angrily as she fell with a heavy thud, blood spilling across the floor. Gilles watched him, looking somewhat concerned as he clutched his temples, dissection knives vanishing back into prana.

"Why isn't this working?" Assassin asked drunkenly, the room spiraling uncontrollably as he spoke. "I feel worse…"

Dizzy. Why was he so dizzy? Everything was hazy, a disgustingly warm, wet feeling creeping behind his eyeballs. Gilles stopped him before he fell over, supporting him with his good hand as he swayed.

"I don't feel well," he groaned weakly. "I have a major fucking headache. _It hurts_ …why does this _hurt_ so bad _?_ "

Gilles wasn't even visible right now, his vision was punctured by pain, everything a blurry mess, like a red balloon was rapidly shrinking around his head.

_I hate you, I hate you so much, you ruin everything._

You always tell yourself not to think of those kinds of things, and for a while it works.

_"Don't you think Uryu is cool, though? He just seems so calm all the time, nothing fazes him!"_

_I like killing people, though, killing them suddenly, they always look so lively when they die…_

"Ryuno… _Ryunosuke_!"

* * *

Kirei's Magical Resistance was probably unparalleled by other Servants, so the fact that he was up against Caster was not terribly alarming. The fortress he'd created on the outskirts of town was too massive to be worth dismantling at this point, so he just made do with it. It was complex and confusing, made Caster himself undetectable within the maze of tunnels and overpasses, and was full of traps, which in and of themselves, weren't that threatening to a man like Kirei. The purpose was to tire him out, which wouldn't happen easily. It was mostly just irritating, because he hadn't come to fight a barrier- the idea of being powerful enough to stand against other Servants was exhilarating and he wanted test it.

Caster may have been invisible and well-hidden within the environment, but it was Rider, however, that was irking him. Rider's presence had changed entirely from its previous feeling, and seemed to have split itself into two, but they were not to be mistaken for the same Servant. It was not unlike the weak Servant in the south mimicking the one that had presumably fled to Italy, which led Kirei to believe that some of them could use others as their proxies. Whether this was done consensually or unwittingly on the part of the proxies had yet to be seen.

The next doorway took him into a dark tunnel, a violent red sun appearing at the end. Rider's presence was incredibly strong here, and Kirei braced himself, allowing himself the liberty of smiling.

 _Finally_.

Rider's form approached from the other end, silhouetted harshly by the glaring light. Kirei tilted his head in intrigue, trying to figure out who it was from this distance- pale skin, dark, wavy hair…a healthy Kariya? No, certainly not, the build was completely wrong. The opponent held a sword in his hand, one that gave off a cursed aura, not brandishing it violently but holding it at his side, waiting.

Saber, who had paused to take in his opponent, went to take a step forward and found his feet mired in some invisible muck, which was rapidly creeping up his legs as Rider charged forward at an equally alarming rate. Summoning the black keys, he lashed at whatever was wrapping around him, and its invisibility dispelled, splattering in all directions and oozing along the mortar between the bricks, like clotted silver blood.

"El-Melloi," he said resolutely, smirking to himself, just as he raised his knives to block the attack from Rider. Their weapons now locked, he could make out the other man's face. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne- his class change had changed his Phantasm, but this was undoubtedly the same principle as the cursed spear Lancer wielded in the Fourth war- a hit from it would be a major strain to heal, impossible even, for most Servants. He was, however, not as skilled as he had been as a true Servant, his grip not as resolute as Saber's, and Kirei's strength was superior, forcing him to pull back. Caster's liquid-self formed behind him, looking rueful. There was a giant gash across his arm, bleeding onto his coat.

"He injured you?"

"That Noble Phantasm has a strong enough Magic Resistance to affect my physical body even when it takes that form.

Diarmuid-Rider nodded determinedly.

"Then I'll fight for you," he insisted. "That's a dangerous predicament for you and we don't know what else he's hiding."

"Boy, you sure think highly of yourself, don't you? You're not even a full Servant, even _he_ can tell, and you think you can protect me? Your priorities are mixed up. It should be the other way around, no matter what power's been bestowed on you."

Diarmuid's eyebrows furrowed. For a second he looked convinced, but then he took his weapon and drove it into the ground, the asphalt at his feet spurting blood and emitting a high-pitched squeal that almost covered up the words of his summoning spell.

"I call upon the Great Beast of Benbulbin!"

Kirei forced himself to backtrack as whatever Diarmuid had summoned formed from the floor, raising its tusks and roaring with immense anger. It was the size of a mammoth, and for a moment he mistook it for one, but it was, in fact a boar- one that bled from its coal-bright eyes and screamed as it charged towards him, tearing the tunnel to shreds in its wake.

Zayda was nearby, he could sense her now, which was good- holding back due to her lack of assistance had been a pain. Certainly, if he landed a strong blow on temporary-Rider, he could nullify his Servant status and take the beast out of the equation. If the physical wound was grave enough to kill him, then it would take out both of these Servants in one fell swoop. But that didn't solve the main issue- the real Rider and his Servant were absent, but they must be nearby, to maintain Diarmuid's current state.

Which meant he wasn't the one in danger- Zayda was.

* * *


	6. The Persistence of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there were a few deviations from my original idea for this chapter. My first plan was to have Arturia tell Kiritsugu what happened in her universe's 4th war. But when I was writing it, it came out awkward, because she experienced most of it secondhand, so she was really just relaying what Gawain knew, and even his knowledge was limited, and I had to dispel Gawain from the room, because he would have gotten upset hearing both stories back to back and seeing her act traumatized, because that's his biggest weakness. So I elected instead to have HIM tell the story to Archer, which, granted, sets back Ar&Ar's understanding of each other a bit, but it's probably for the best, more time for them to get to know each other over the course of the story, since they are both very difficult people.  
> My second deviation was Zayda. When I was writing it, the conflicting PoVs trying to take hold, for some reason it struck me to use an abandoned plotline from the original Fate/Zero to cement her confusion and hurt in the scene. Most of her personalities in both timelines are ruthless, manipulative people, but she says herself that the most adept to deal with the situation at hand will take over. So who better to deal with Rider than someone who actually knows him? Kinda upset myself writing that part, though, ngl.  
> Third, I had to cut it short. It was already at 11 pages and the last 3 PoVs are equally important, and I couldn't eloquently force that much drama and revelations into one chapter, because woah, was this a dramatic chapter, and having those last 3 PoVs would have actually detracted from it.

Alexander surveyed the falsified world around them, formed like a junkyard, where thousands of cars sat in piles, their empty headlights glowing dully as the artificial sun set to match its real world counterpart. Rider noted that his usually engaged expression was troubled. He continuously furrowed and unfurrowed his bushy eyebrows, fighting a battle no one but he could hear.

"What's on your mind?" Rider asked him, a small amount of Volumen Hydragyrum levitating about his hand as he played with it idly. Alex turned to watch him, still conflicted.

"I suppose there's no beating around the bush, is there?"

He knew what was coming, but there was really no way to rebut it until it was spoken out loud- otherwise it would just prove his point. It was unfair. This whole thing was unfair, that someone as brutal and war-savvy as Alexander the Great should be so naïve in this universe.

" _You treat me like I'm a child_."

Waver sighed. This only served to irritate his master further, his words growing more heated as he continued.

"Giving Diarmuid combative abilities that very well may kill him, but not giving me the same chance, knowing full-well I'd embrace it?"

"I knew you would take this too lightly."

"You're the one who takes _me_ too lightly!"

"Alex, listen to me- while Surge per Me gives you all the abilities to fight a hero's fight, it does not give you the mind to do so. Because of this, most people given Rider status will most likely perish for our cause, Diarmuid included. He does not have the knowledge to back up his strength."

"Then why… _why_ would you give him that power? If he isn't strong enough to control it as he is- why not return his memories?!"

"Do you really think that will help? The human mind is the most powerful weapon in the world. You can be blessed with every gift on earth, given the power of a _God_ , but without the will to fight, you'd be _nothing_. Like most blessings, Reversi Memorium is a monkey's paw. You have to understand- you are a different lifetime than Alexander the Great. Giving you his memories would not erase yours and replace them with his. It would simply force your consciousness to accept him, and if you are not mentally prepared, could destroy your mind. Humans are not fit to share headspace with one another. Even if the soul is the same, it's more like…shoving twins into one body, and telling them to share all of their thoughts, to assimilate with each other. The idea that you may not be the person you thought you were your entire life…doesn't that frighten you? The thought that you could lose who you are-"

"What's the use in being frightened? I accepted this destiny when I summoned you, didn't I? What kind of Master doesn't fight alongside his Servant?"

"In our current position? A smart one! You have the circuits, but not the makings of a Magus," Rider said sadly, squeezing the liquid in his hand like a stress toy. "I envy you. _I do_. I _don't_ look down on you like you think. It's my desire to protect your noble intents, your love of life…to spare you the horror of the truth…"

"What right do you have, to deny me what I want?!" Alex roared. "You're _my_ Servant!"

Rider flinched when he raised his voice- it still didn't connect with him that he was stronger than this man, that he could break or kill him as easily as he claimed. Alex was angry. His best friend was growing to resent him, and that was far more frightening than the concept of his death at any Servant's hands.

He wanted to cry. To break down and pound his fists against Alexander's chest and wail 'I waited for you, I spent half of my life mourning your loss, hoping someday I'd see you again,' but he didn't. He wasn't 19 and immature anymore. If Alex hated him, so be it. It would make his inevitable death less bitter in the end, and Waver would cherish any time they had together, no matter how Alex felt towards him.

It didn't change the fact that this man was not prepared to take on the burdens of those memories.

"Rider…"

He looked back at Alex, who was holding his massive hand up, gaze resolute. It took him a minute to process what was happening, but something else was off- he was sure there had been the tiniest of disturbances in the room. His Master didn't notice- he started to speak, his tone firm, and El-Melloi II forced himself to look calm.

"I command you-"

Rider darted behind him before Alex could even comprehend that there was another person there with them, the silver liquid taking the shape of a shield which he used to deflect the enemy's thrown knife. It clattered to the side, glinting sinisterly, the tip of it wet with something deadly. Behind him, Alex inhaled sharply.

Whatever the unfinished command had been, Waver pretended he didn't care. He focused on the assailant. They weren't within view, and had somehow concealed their prana, and Rider looked around suspiciously, momentarily ungrateful for the environment's complexity. This Master was dangerous, and had plenty of places to hide.

"Stay alert," he commanded Alex, who grunted in temporary agreement. Rider closed his eyes, forcing the Volumen Hydragyrum to expand before it branched off into hundreds of tendrils, searching the massive scrapyard maze in the direction the knife had been thrown from. Somehow he was not finding anything.

"This is a skilled Magus, one who can conceal their presence almost entirely."

A hissing sound started immediately, something exploding near their feet into a cloud of noxious smoke that, while having no effect on Rider, was clearly poisonous to humans. Alex shut his eyes and held his breath immediately.

The Volumen Hydragyrum bloated like an unmanageable tumor before sprouting limbs, becoming distinctly human-shaped. Its reflective surface dulled and became a complete replica of Rider, and it looked back at him with an almost hungry expression. His particular Volumen Hydagyrum, while able to replicate forms, had a mind of its own and was rather inept at impersonating people's personalities. That didn't matter- he wasn't using it for reconnaissance, but as a decoy.

"Find the Master." He demanded.

The Hydragyrum clone said nothing, just burst forward in a predatory fashion towards the source of the thrown weapon, its arms becoming noodle-like and regaining sheen as they stretched around the area. Although the attacker managed to dodge the Hydragyrum tendrils, a miniscule dirt displacement upon their feet hitting the ground told Rider where they landed. The clone sensed this too, and lunged for the invisible Master, who somehow managed to evade it.

"Kill you, I'll kill you," the replica chanted metallically.

Rider successfully led Alex away from the gas explosion. The Hydragyrum clone was getting worked up, tearing through piles of cars looking for the invisible Master, who continuously avoided its attacks.

Another tiny disturbance triggered the animated liquid once more- this time a sharp intake of breath- all the dodging was bound to wear in the Master eventually, no matter how fit they were. It stretched itself out, winding around the area like a drunken snake until it caught hold of the Master and enveloped them. The liquid squeezed her so tight that there was a sickening crack, and she lost control of her concealment spell. It reformed as human, her now visible body in its chokehold. Rider stared at her coldly. The face wasn't familiar, but the general build was- clearly, she was the original Assassin's female body.

"You're Saber's Master. He must be Kotomine, then."

The Volumen Hydragyrum was holding her too tight for speech. She simply glared coldly, resigned to her defeat. She wasn't even struggling. He recalled the female assassin holding her ground as she was struck down, the others attempting to escape futilely- it had been one of his first tastes of what death looked like in person, what war really entailed. Her courage despite her unsavory tactics was admirable, in a pathetic way. He disregarded her, turning once more towards his Master.

"Were you going to force me to use my Noble Phantasms on you earlier?"

The man's body tensed at being addressed so suddenly, but he made a noncommittal groan at having been called out at such a moment.

"I see. I thought as much."

Rider walked towards the helpless woman and the Hydragyrum clone. With his hand he expelled it, the magic vanishing back into nothingness. She dropped to her knees, massaging her throat gently, but didn't bother to get to her feet- the Volumen Hydragyrum had probably broken a few ribs when he'd squeezed her earlier- she knew defeat when she saw it. Still, she looked up at him with a silent hatred as he addressed her.

"Who are you, Master of Saber?"

"Zayda of the Hassan-i-Sabah."

"But who is Zayda, really? Do you want to find out?"

This question was not for her, but for Alexander.

* * *

Two nights ago, as the sun set over Saint Nazaire, Archer, under force of command spell, relayed just about every detail of the Fourth Holy Grail war of Fuyuki city that he knew. He'd stopped to answer their questions at appropriate times, and seemed to withdraw visibly as Gawain became increasingly heated. Gawain, however, was not one to express a visible burst of anger- he was actually an incredibly agreeable person, albeit with a single berserk button that Kiritsugu kept jabbing repeatedly.

_He abused Arthur. He misused him and he betrayed him, and he wouldn't hesitate to do it again._

Besides expressing his obvious distaste and resentment towards this man via his expressions, there was little he could do. He listened and stewed in silence, right up until the very last part where he spoke of rejecting his wife for the sake of destroying the Grail's corruption. This part, while particularly repulsive, actually eased Gawain's mind a _tiny_ bit, and he placed his head onto his folded hands and stared at the Servant blankly, thinking to himself 'he betrayed Arthur, sacrificed him without allowing even his dignity.'

Unacceptable. This man was scum. He didn't deserve to fight in this war, didn't even deserve to be sacrificed to this Grail. It didn't matter how righteous he may or may not have been in his intents. Gawain hated him. Did he not understand who Arthur was? In that universe and this one…he deserved respect! He'd been chosen for such an admirable cause…what was wrong with this man?!

Arthur, while troubled, didn't seem to have changed his opinion of Kiritsugu Emiya. He simply nodded stoically and asked him a few questions- Gawain had shut his ears off for the time being, he couldn't stand to listen to Archer's voice anymore.

Something else was bothering him, though. The other two exchanged calm words for a good five minutes before Gawain acknowledged that it wasn't going to be brought up unless he said something himself.

"You never saw that man, Kariya Matou, or the face of his Servant," he found himself blurting out, before he could stop it. There was a clear image in his mind- a beautiful girl, hair and skin bleached of all color but the lines that marred her skin, like lava seeping through snow. That face wracked with madness as she looked past them and at Arthur, her chilling voice- _"You. It's your fault he didn't love me."_

Alter. That trainwreck Lancelot had summoned…

She was the one who had ruined everything, hadn't she? She'd tried to kill Arthur, which was why he couldn't accompany them in the war. And Gawain wasn't strong enough to fight that madness-ridden monstrosity when her insanity spread like a contagion…he didn't have the command spells after all, _he hadn't been chosen by the Grail._

"I didn't see his face, no."

"It doesn't matter. You didn't need to," Gawain hissed.

His Servant- Arthur had defeated the black knight, but hadn't told Kiritsugu who he was- he was sacrificed directly afterwards. A knight? What did that mean? One of _them_? And if the Servants in that universe truly all paralleled this reality's Masters, it couldn't be Lancelot, Lancelot was _dead_ for God's sake.

"Gawain."

He snapped back to reality, looking at Arthur intently.

"That Grail was polluted by an evil Servant. If these worlds truly parallel each other- what of our Grail?"

"I don't know. You know I don't know. He killed her before she took that form."

Arthur's voice trembled very slightly as he continued. Gawain felt terrible for having said it, knowing that it bothered him just as much to recall those things. But really, what did he expect? He never saw either Grail take form- to the best of his knowledge, the other had been destroyed as well.

"The people that governed their war, the politics of Mages in their universe- there were such rules in place for us as well, before the collapse of their system due to bloodline deterioration, and the general events of our last Holy Grail war."

"I do know that," Gawain whispered.

"We have a great deal to think about, don't we? Some of the details of these stories…what you experienced, what he experienced…they overlap to an uncomfortable degree, don't you agree?"

"I do."

"Then it would be to both of your advantages for you to fill him in on the last war."

Gawain almost agreed without thinking. He stopped his tongue the moment Arthur's words hit home and sputtered out his next sentence.

"You want me to…tell him of our previous Grail war?"

"Yes. Tell him. All of it. It does nobody here any favors for you to withhold information. He deserves to know."

_He doesn't. He doesn't. This bastard deserves nothing from you-_

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Then I will take leave. It's unnecessary for me to hear this again."

Gawain wanted to argue- perhaps that his trust in him was misplaced, that it would be foolish to believe Gawain would relay every detail, but he was right. Gawain would leave no stone unturned, much as he hated Kiritsugu Emiya. If Arthur had requested it, he would attest- he was that simple-minded, and Arthur knew it.

Gawain knew he had reasons for not sticking around to hear it all again. Perhaps the story haunted him still, as it did Gawain, but if that was his reasoning he let nothing show. Perhaps he was giving Archer a taste of his own medicine, although vengeful behavior had always been beyond someone as righteous as him; that was one area they could never agree on.

Arthur shot Gawain an affirmative, apologetic look as he stood. He nodded back, smiled, even, the other blonde taking his leave from the room- probably to get things in order with the others back in Britain. Feeling helpless once more, Gawain had reflected on how he could never understand that man's emotions.

Perhaps he was unworthy to.

Perhaps it was for the best.

On the third night, as they prepared for their next battle, he tried to keep his grip on Arthur's hand steady as the protection spell was cast, the remaining two command spells splitting between them.

 _"_ The hand of justice shall proclaim judgment _._

It seeks not vengeance, nor speaks of animosity

Only to destroy evil…"

* * *

_Do you know what it's like to be truly expendable? To be worthless?_

_Do you?_

Zayda felt like a massive weight was bearing down on her. In reality it was just one man's finger, his olive-colored eyes empty and glazed over, expressing only a tiny bit of pity beneath the firmness. She did not request this emotion, did not want his pity. She was tired, too tired to rebut him. He stood above her and looked down, and it hit her like an avalanche how helpless she was, always had been.

At birth she'd received a crest- the seal of a thousand faces, to further her family's ambitions. Her clan was cruel, they were unaffectionate and greedy, and she had been raised with those same ideals- protect yourself, serve only your family, kill whoever stands in your path.

_That is what it means to be Hassan-i-Sabah._

The crest was a curse and a blessing in one. It gave her the ability to adapt to any situation at hand, to shield herself from danger by switching to the 'face' most suited to the moment, but she could never control it, never banish it, never live normally unless she obtained the Grail- exactly what her clan wanted. So she'd made it her goal to have all of them silenced, gone, so only the real Zayda would remain.

But even that was a lie.

_None of you are real._

_What?_ Zayda thought helplessly, her arms heavy.

_We were here before you, we will be here after you._

_The real Hassan-i-Sabah._

_I'm the real Hassan-i-Sabah._

_You're the fake._

She'd never really considered the fact that banishing the 'fake' personalities might kill her as well. She never really considered that they all might be the real personality, that she had grown so dependent on them that they had become a part of each other. She'd certainly never imagined that none of them were the real personality, that there were beings from worlds beyond and parallel to this one just as real as her, maybe even more-so...

She'd just wanted silence.

 _Scared. I'm scared,_ one of them whimpered.

_Stay back. Let me handle this._

_I know him. I do. He's not the bad one. They're the bad ones. Those other faces..._

Zayda trembled, reaching her weak fingers for her temples.

_I remember him. I do! That's Iskander, and Waver! He's my friend!_

_Stop it! That's a Servant, we've never met that man before-_

She looked back up at him, images hazy, unsure of what was real right now. This wasn't normal for her- usually a construct would just switch out, but no, she could hear them now, multiple voices, all screaming to be the loudest.

_You were reborn as a human, Zayd? Pretty fucking sad. Look at you, crying like a little girl._

_No. No, I'm not the one crying-_

_Wasn't that one of Rider's soldiers inside Ionioi Hetairoi?_

_Beats me. Maybe he's reborn too._

_No, that's that kid, don't you remember him?_

She was standing now, frozen among a crowd of dark figures, all of them bearing bone-white masks. It was the others- the ones born of her curse, those that protected and tormented. So many of her, but even more of them- the thousands of men that descended upon them like a tidal-wave. The others turned to run and she stared forward, didn't move, _couldn't_ move, just thought to herself

_Am I that weak?_

One of them raised his sword and swung, her head severing from her neck like a felled tree. She screamed, she felt the pain of hundreds of deaths at once as the others were struck down as well, hundreds of voices, ones born of different realities all crying out in dissent.

_I was the real one. It should have been my body!_

_Her wish spoke the loudest, though, didn't it?_

_Who cares, anyway? Who fucking cares? We did what we were created to do._

_I wanted the Grail, though. I would have shut the rest of you up for good..._

"Stop it," she whimpered, looking up at Rider. "Stop it."

"It's too late to stop," he whispered, putting a hand on top of her head as she burst into tears.

"What's happening to her?!" the Master asked, looking alarmed. Zayda fell back, terrified of him- that man, the one that had killed her, killed all of them-

"She's remembering."

"You were my friend!" she sputtered. "You found me, you brought me home!"

"What is she talking about?!" the redhead demanded, Waver removing his hand from her forehead and prompting her to sob even more.

_Stop that. Stop crying! You're making me look weak!_

"This is what happens to those who remember. Hopelessness upon realization that they will always repeat their past mistakes- the nature of the human condition. She's confused, and can't tell the past from the present. A singular one of her personalities knew me in my lifetime. That's the one that will speak, to preserve her sanity- to grip onto something familiar."

_He's talking shit and she won't even say anything._

_Hey you, human girl, say something._

_How dare you, how dare all of you._

_You got so big, Waver. You look so handsome. Why are you sad?_

She remembered standing outside Caster's workshop, watching the embers flicker like fireflies, couldn't understand what she was doing there. Then, those two men found her. Well, one wasn't really a man. Pretty close, at that awkward stage, painfully short, he looked upset for some reason, wiping his mouth as though he'd just finished throwing up before he finally caught sight of her.

_"Oh my God! One of them's alive! Rider, look!"_

_He pattered towards her, tripping over his feet a little. Clumsy. What a clumsy boy. Her own feet were small. She was helpless, not like the other ones. She couldn't remember them either, who they were, what they looked like. Shadows, like her, but she was so tiny, the slightest bit of light could vanish her..._

_"H-hey, kid, are you all right? What's your name?"_

_Hands on her shoulders. She stared back dully, confused._

_"Asha...A...Ashash..."_

_"Ashley?" he'd asked her, even though she was obviously not European. She honestly couldn't remember the word she'd been trying to say, held her tiny mask in her tiny hand and looked up at him._

_"Ashley," she repeated._

_"Oh, thank God, you can talk...A-Ashley...my name is Waver. Waver Velvet. Are you ok? Where are your parents?"_

_"Gone," she said, putting her finger to her chin. Gone. That's what the word was, right? Were those other men her parents? That man over there, the big funny one with the red hair had killed them, just a few minutes ago._

_"Her parents...Rider, what should be do?"_

"Rider, what should we do?"

Waver's voice had become Iskander's. The past was now the present- she was holding her broken ribs, struggling to breathe, looking up at them tearfully.

"Help me, Waver!" she shouted, unaware that her body was that of an adult, that this was not her time, her reality. The room they were in was dissolving, shattering like a mirror, revealing an abandoned factory that had been torn to shreds by their fight, walls splattered with the blood of something big and _dead_. There were now six people here, five and a half, because one was dying, impaled on another's blades. Who was the killer? She recognized him too, but...

_Kirei. Kirei Kotomine, that's his name._

_I don't like that man._

"Diarmuid!" Alexander shouted, trying to rush forward, but Waver grabbed him, didn't let him go- he and Kirei were staring at each other with that same detached, empty look, like they were sizing each other up, not sure what to do.

"Switch hostages," Kirei demanded. "Give me my Master and I will let you save him...if Caster even wants you to."

Hostage? She wasn't a hostage, was she?

"Or would you rather cut your losses and kill her, for the sake of destroying me? I think you know by now why that would be a bad idea, Lord El-Melloi."

Who was El-Melloi? That was Waver! _Don't say mean things to Waver!_

The long-haired man looked briefly at her again, somewhat apologetically.

"Take her," he said quietly, as he turned away.

"What?" she stuttered. Kirei dispelled his blades, his victim falling forward and gasping violently, biting back a pained scream. Ashley clutched her own ribs, understanding the pain that man felt, trembled as Kirei approached her.

"Let's go, Master."

"I want to stay here, with Waver," she insisted, drawing back to the best of her ability.

"How troublesome. That man doesn't want you. You'll only burden him."

"Don't insult her!" the giant roared, clenching his fists. "She's your Master, show some compassion!"

Waver was backing away. She felt herself being lifted gently by that man she hated, Kirei, Kirei didn't care about her, hated her back, even, he'd sent her to her death, forced her to remember being an assassin, she wanted Waver, _Waver_ , why wasn't he staying with her?

"Don't be afraid of me," Kirei said, almost soothingly. "I'm going to help you. He doesn't want to help."

They were leaving now, she felt their gazes boring into his back.

Was that it?

They weren't going to save her?

Did nobody care about her?

Would anyone ever?

_That's right, Zayda. You are just a machine. Those things you call emotions...those are byproducts of the seal, not even real feelings._

_Her small hand felt cold as the young man let go. He seemed somewhat older now, than when she first met him, even if he was crying. That was ok, though, he could cry. Sometimes adults cried too, right?_

_"Goodbye, Ashley."_

_"Bye-bye, Waver. Bye, Rider."_

Kotomine ran, carrying her so it didn't really hurt that much, the other voices rising in the back of her head, weak, all of them weak and small, just like her.

* * *

Diarmuid convulsed on the floor, bit his own tongue until it bled to keep from screaming. At least, he _thought_ he'd drawn blood, perhaps not, perhaps it was the blood his lungs were trying desperately to dispel. He rolled onto his side and curled inwards, looked blearily up at Caster, who was staring back unreadably.

"Heal him, Caster!" Alexander demanded loudly. "What are you doing just watching?! What kind of Servant are you?!"

Diarmuid wondered if his death would be slow and painful, just like the man he'd turned himself into.

Maybe he deserved it.

_"You are cursed to be loved, and by proxy, hated."_

He didn't want her to fall for him, but that didn't stop him from pitying her. He'd tried so many times to break the curse, used to scratch at his face until it bled, it would always heal up without scarring. It was his fault, though, for taking it. Because she'd begged him- _it's not him; it's you I love, you could never understand what it's like..._

The Georgallis crest. There were variations of it, the bloodline having spread across Europe centuries ago. It could cause anything from insanity to infatuation, paralysis to paranoia. The only surefire way to get rid of it was to die, or have it taken from you, willingly, by someone else.

But who would do such a thing on their own free will?

_"I don't love him."_

Those deadly words, how many lives had they taken throughout the course of history?

Diarmuid felt his chest seize up, this time was unable to bite back his scream.

_Finn. I didn't even apologize properly..._

They were alone on the train earlier, he and Caster, in a separate coach from the other two, Diarmuid knew that Caster liked privacy, would object to anything else. Kayneth, he was a bitter man, but he was naturally curious, particularly when it came to Diarmuid's suffering, and staying silent for too long grated on him until he began questioning him about his past, his motives. Usually he didn't care, would rather talk about Magecraft or Politics, but there seemed to be a bit of apprehension in his voice about this fight.

Was he worried he would die?

_"Do you have any friends, O'dyna?"_

_"Me? Not really. Not anymore..."_

Caster had that weird expression that cats had when their prey was finally dying. Intrigued, cold, indecisive, perhaps contemplating putting him out of his misery, perhaps relishing his death.

_"So he killed himself because she loved you more, and she withered away from guilt...so that's why you're so 'intrigued' by that girl? You think she's like him, then. History's victim, destined to stand between a love that was stronger than her own. Betrayed bitterly, forsaken by her dearest friend. You're repenting for the mess you caused, thought you'd clean up someone else's."_

_"Do you know about the Pendragon curse, Caster?"_

_"Why would I know of a curse that is not required knowledge in this war."_

_"I suppose you're right...that family, most of them are related to some degree, others are found, drawn to their quest, they abandon their names and join the cause, the search for the Holy Grail, that which can summon miracles. Their entire history is already written, in that respect, a fate which none of them are capable of fighting. Once they take that name, their legend is erased from history books. They are incapable of reading their own story, of foreseeing their inevitable future."_

_"Then what's the point? What's the point of fighting? She's destined to fail, isn't she?"_

_"But that's exactly it, Caster. The curse will prevent her from giving up, because she is blinded to the truth."_

_"What a bleary existence."_

_"It's not."_

_Caster paused, looked at him like a tool he wasn't sure how to use._

_"It's not. A curse can still be broken, can't it? Miracles exist. That's precisely what we're fighting for, the power of a miracle."_

"Go away, Velvet, and take your Master with you," he heard faintly.

His own breathing was louder than their footsteps. This hurt. He was angry, bitter, but he knew it was his fault for throwing himself into a pointless battle like that one. They had done well, terrible outcome aside- that man was not normal, he would have outclassed anyone, right? At least it was a hero's death, then.

"I'm...sorry you...have to...die with me," he wheezed, trying to expend at little breath as possible. "I...I know...how much you...hate...being attached to...me. But...please...just...kill me now...this hurts...so much.'

Caster's form had that weird look to it, liquidized, not quite mercury but his face watery. To Diarmuid's horror, part of it started to bleed away into its Volumen Hydragyrum form, trickling down his face like toxic tears and pooling into his hands, an odd, raw burn left in its wake. Part of his skin shifted to cover it, the raw portion moving somewhere else, but it was still there, under his clothes somewhere, a huge chunk of him missing.

"No," Caster said coldly, then thrust his hands into Diarmuid's chest, he heard his own scream as the liquid crawled inside his ravaged lungs, stung as it mingled with his blood. He coughed violently, expelling a huge portion of it from his mouth- metalic, red, felt his skin stitching back together, gurgled and spit away what was left of it, that useless blood, something else taking its place.

"Why?" he rasped, feeling the warm liquid still trickling from his mouth, pain vanishing to a numbing ache.

"Your lack of self-preservation is astounding. You make me sick. Nobody will ever care for you if you place no value on your own life."

"Why _save_ me?" he asked again, desperately. Caster stood up, pushed his hair back into place, no longer looking at him.

"I changed my mind. I want to kill Emiya, and Kotomine too. I want to put that bastard student of mine back in his place. And I want...to leave some sort of mark on this world, as I failed to do on the last. This wasn't for your sake, narcissist, so don't flatter yourself."

Not exactly a confession of friendship, but he would take what he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to the four people who have this bookmarked, and those who have given it kudos. I'm kinda like, freaked out as I write this because I feel like I'm doing it blindly, here and on ff.net people seem to 'like' it but don't review so I don't have the faintest clue what I'm doing right or wrong and Fate is such a complex universe asghagoha I hope this means you guys -are- enjoying it and maybe just don't have anything to say which is fine I'm just paranoid that I'm screwing everything up (beyond the expected with an AU)


	7. Lament of Impurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and at that moment i swear the entire cast was Berserker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: PLOT TWIST: Ryuunosuke thinks 'this isn't cool.'  
> I’m so sorry that this took so long. People who follow me on tumblr can attest that I have had it mostly done for months and it’s more of a matter of me not thinking it was up to par with my writing standards. Oh well, I’ve given up obsessing over that, I feel like you guys would rather see something than nothing at all, right? Thank you SO MUCH for all the kudos and bookmarks I’ve received since the last chapter though, holy crap. I love you guys. I also have a few pieces of F/TE fanart I could share, as well as concept art I did of all the characters (I literally sketched all the Master/Servant pairs as they appear in this AU. Also a few of the side characters.)  
> In this chapter we meet…a weird Arthurian Gary Stu. WHO COULD THIS BE???

“Why don’t you go outside, Mordred? It’s warm out today, the snow is thawing.”

Of all the occupants of the Pendragon house, Bevidere was the one Mordred hated the least. It wasn't saying much, Bevidere was a bit stern, but usually reasonable, nor did he seem to address her with the same condescending tone the others usually reserved. He also tended to be more lax than Gawain, and didn’t have the big head either, so Mordred found herself reserving the least amount of contempt for him. He always had a cigarette hanging from his lips, but it was never lit- he’d just chew it compulsively and smile peacefully at the others, the perfect gentleman, the straight man, Arturia’s voice of reason.

Though it pained her to take anyone’s advice, she would occasionally listen to Bedivere. It was pretty nice outside, after all, not quite as chilly as it had been, and she found herself wandering the grounds aimlessly, wondering to herself how fast Bedivere would catch her if she just bolted. She’d heard he specialized in tranquilizers, she didn’t really fancy finding out firsthand, but he didn’t yell for her when she moved out of his eyesight, which was nice, not being treated like a toy dog for once.

To the front of the manor was the path that led into the city. They were on the outskirts, blanketed by a small forest with a creek cutting through it that wound around the side of the house; if you followed it you’d eventually hit the highway, she’d heard Caradoc say offhandedly. At the foot of the stream there was a blob of white- a boy’s figure, basking in the sunlight and holding a book in front of his nose, unaware as she made her way towards him.

So he was back, was he?

Gail Corbens, somewhere around 12 years old, was still too young to be knighted, and spent most of his time living with his biological aunt, usually only coming over for his mage training. Ironically, he was older than Mordred, who was five, but her body had aged rapidly due to the fact that she was a prototype vessel born of solely Arthur’s genetics, and her mind had followed suit due to the intensive training she was given, educated under the correct assumption that the war would start prematurely, and that she may need to be a functional human being. Gail himself looked the part of a proper Holy Grail container, probably because he was biologically related to the root on his mother’s side. Honestly, these assholes wouldn’t tell her much about the war or bloodlines or anything, but she knew enough that she understood that this little bastard was the same thing as her; he just wasn’t going to _perish_.

“What are you reading, Corbens?” she asked coldly, grabbing the book from his hands before he could protest. She gazed down at him hatefully and he stared back with an innocent expression until she flipped it open to a random page, prepared to mock him, then gritting her teeth upon the realization-

It was blank.

“What the hell?” she expressed, flipping through page after page of his book, shutting it and looking at the cover- _blank_. Absolutely nothing in it.

“It’s a history book,” Gail said softly, holding his hand up so she’d return it to him. She tossed it in the mud instead, and he looked at it with an eerie sadness as she turned away, prepared to leave him. Fucking weird little shit.

“Did you know you’re supposed to be a boy, Mordred?” he said quietly. She stopped in her tracks, body becoming tense. “And Arthur too.”

Twisting around, she grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him up to her level. He was tall for his age, already taller than her, with large gray eyes, and thick, snow-colored hair that fell in waves just past his chin. His appearance and expression were almost creepy in their Anglicism, a creature completely unaware of wrongdoing or grudges, and she felt an irrational hatred for him, moreso than anyone else in this fucking house but Arturia.

“How can you read that book?” she hissed. “How can you see past the curse?”

“I’ve been practicing Magecraft a lot lately,” Gail whispered, still not upset by her manhandling him. “You used to look like a boy to me, but not lately. Why is that?”

“Do the others know?!”

“Hmm?”

“Do the others know you have enough fucking Magical Circuits to bypass a curse that big?”

“I tried to ask uncle Gawain last week but he didn’t understand me. So I asked about your names. He said the house is based on the Arthurian legend, right? But you can’t read books about them, otherwise you’d have an unfair advantage and know the future. He doesn’t know about it, but I can still read them, because I’m not a knight, right? It’s really simple. I think once you become a true knight, you forget everything the books say, and can’t fight it anymore.”

“What does the book say?!” she growled, letting him down once more. He eyed the mud-splattered object forlornly and opened his mouth, moving his lips as though he was telling her something, but no sound came out.

“Hey you little creep, I asked you a question!”

“I just told you, though, what it said. But I don’t think you can hear me, because of the curse.”

“Fucking fine, then. How do you break the curse?”

“It doesn’t say. _They_ weren’t under a curse, just _you_. It’s not exactly the same as the book says, because History is never all the way right, right? I think…the only way to break it is to leave, isn’t it? You can only change the outcome if you’re not a knight, or if you turn your back. I’m not a knight so I know everything that happens. You can probably find out too, if you leave. But I don’t think you should do that, Mordred.”

“Why not?!” she hissed.

Once again his words were blanked out, Mordred balling her fists in rage.

“Did you see yourself in the book?”

“Me? I can’t be sure, really. But my mother’s family was the original prototype for your Grail Vessel, before they made you. But she didn’t die the way you usually do. She killed herself.”

“I know that, freak, that’s why you’re here.”

What an irritating brat. She knew if she socked him in the face Gawain would be pissed- if he was even coming home. The sudden thought of him and Arturia dying was kinda nice, wasn’t it? Gail continued to look at her, unblinking, until she focused on him again.

“So are you in the book or not?” she asked him impatiently, wondering if he was completely useless or could actually help her.

“Yes. But if I tell you that name I might be forced to take it, right? I can’t help you if I don’t remember anything.”

Fed up, Mordred punched him in the eye, knocking him to the ground. He stared at her, rubbed his cheek indolently, looking confused but not really upset.

“What’s wrong with you?! Hit me back!” she demanded, as he got up and brushed himself off, picking his book out of the mud and wiping it on his now dirtied pants.

“Why would I do that?”  he said softly.

“Aren’t you angry? Don’t you hate me?”

“Not really,” Gail responded. “But it’s ok if you are. You can hit me again, if that makes you feel better,” he offered gently.

She did, right in the nose, then in the stomach, then his mouth, the sound of fist meeting flesh ringing in her ears. Blood trickled from his nostril and dripped onto the white dress-shirt he wore, and he took the abuse without so much as a whimper, only looking up at her when she was finished and managing a small

"Did that help?"

"No," she said, tearing away from the awkward kid and back towards the house, feeling his gaze boring into her.

It didn’t. 

* * *

 

The sensation of waking up blind must be an awful feeling. Although Gilles required glasses for his own vision impairment, it was nothing close to the feeling of a world suddenly swallowed by darkness, perhaps wondering if you’re still asleep.

Assassin hadn’t fainted per-say, as it was unlikely that a Servant could faint or sleep in the manner of a human. However, he’d lost function for a brief minute, and when he came to his senses and started pawing at his face in disbelief, it was obvious that something was wrong. It wasn’t clear _what_ until he went so far as to touch his eyes directly without flinching. That was when he lost his nerve.

“I’m blind?!” he cried in panic, and Gilles peered closer at him- his gaze was unfocused and he didn’t seem able to blink- he was more than just blind, he’s suffered some form of nerve damage.

“This…this isn’t cool! I can’t see blood anymore! What if this is permanent?! How am I supposed to have fun if I can’t even see what I’m doing?!”

Gilles watched him silently, unsure of how to respond to this. In the time since the illness had visibly taken hold of his Servant, his skin had started to grow strange bumps in places, most notably on his forehead and around his eyes, as though the arteries were popping out of his skin. The Master reached forward gently to touch beneath Assassin’s eye, to feel the oddly engorged veins. Because of Ryunosuke’s class, blindness didn’t impair his senses too badly- he could still function well enough without sight to know Gilles was reaching for him, so he sat still for a moment, looking through him with those dead eyes.

When his emaciated finger brushed against one of the lines curiously, Gilles felt something squirm at his touch. He jerked his hand away in horror- there was definitely something under his Servant’s skin. Ryunosuke yelped, grabbed his temple with one hand, his skin convulsing like a maggot-ridden cadaver and blood leaking from the veins like a punctured hose. It even built up in his foggy eyes and spilled over, putrid tears runnng across his cheeks as he shook his head wildly.

“What’s happening?!” he wailed.

“Calm down, Assassin, calm down! I think…I think it gets worse when you’re excited!”

Assassin forced himself to take short, gasping breaths, even though physically it did nothing for him. Eventually he calmed down, pulled his hand away from his face and tried to push himself off the floor, into a standing position again. His balance was a complete wreck and he collapsed immediately, Gilles catching him once more. His hands were sticky from blood, and left a red smear on the Master’s arm, which Gilles looked at curiously, feeling uneasy.

“I’ve read about corruption magic before. He’s using you as a host, which is why you can’t recover prana.”

“ _Cool_ …but gross…” Assassin groaned. He did seem genuinely interested in the corruption process, but the fact that he couldn’t even see what he looked like right now was obviously a major damper in his enthusiasm. “So I’m pretty much screwed? He’s just going to drain me until I die?”

“Possibly,” Gilles muttered sadly. “There’s still a chance that purification magic can reverse this, but I’m not practiced in it.”

Ryunosuke didn’t give two shits about magecraft, he’d made this clear several times, and Gilles himself had only started due to curiosity, so they were in a really bad jam right now. Helping both of them to their feet, he walked over to their water supply; five gallon-jugs from the nearest grocery, uncorked and spilled some across his bad arm, watching Assassin's watered-down blood run across his skin and wincing as the icy liquid seeped through his bandages.

“This really sucks,” Assassin complained, trying to get used to his shattered center of gravity by walking carefully between the pews. He flickered a few times, almost fell flat on his face, then took a seat on a scorched bench and gazed blankly in the general direction of the stained glass. 

Gilles started lifting the moldy carpeting and searching for hidden compartments, brooded when he found nothing, not even in the back of his head that could help. All he could remember was one of the last things Jeanne had said-

“Do not mistake purity for the same thing as goodness.”

“Hmm?” Assassin said groggily, tilting his head and looking back at him with a forced smile.

“That’s what she told me. A person can have the best of intentions and still do terrible things, can be the most gracious being on earth and still capable of the greatest cruelty. Someone who is truly good isn’t necessarily pure- more likely they have suffered numerable indignities that enlightened them to goodness. Purity is cruel. It’s a natural state, not a gained one. So long as you don’t see what you’re doing as wrong, you can still be a pure being, even if it hurts those around you. It’s rare that purity and goodness should overlap, because unlike kindness, purity’s easily corrupted, and not easily regained.”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit too abstract for me,” Ryunosuke complained. “Are you saying I was a pure being?”

“You certainly aren’t a good one.”

“Ha! I’m glad you can still joke, Gilles, I was concerned you might be upset! So Berserker could corrupt me because I was pure, huh?”

“No, you’re looking too much into it. I was saying more along the lines of…well…it’s depressing...but that it’s far easier to dirty something than to clean it. So even with the right application…that kind of magic might not be strong enough to reverse this.”

“Where did you learn all this stuff, Gilles? Can’t the person who taught you this help us?”

“She’s dead, I already told you that.”

“The woman who owned this church? Sort-of your modern-day Joan of Arc, right?”

‘I…I suppose you could call her that.”

“So she knew magecraft?”

“Yes. She was talented in the healing sort. She always…told me I had a great deal of potential, but she urged me not to pursue it. ‘The Magus world is corrupt, it turns good men evil.’”

“So that’s what you meant by forward-thinking. She didn’t like the politics of the Magus system.”

He nodded, then realized Assassin couldn’t even see it, but he’d sensed the movement, the message got through to him, and he sighed audibly. 

“I don’t want to die like this, Gilles. I wanted to see everything in vivid detail, just like last time. Am I even worthy to call myself your Servant? What’s left for me? I lost you your hand, you can’t even make me kill myself. What if he has me kill you?”

“I’m not afraid of death,” Gilles murmured. “I was going to die anyway, wasn’t I? You saved me. And intentionally or not, reminded me of things I’d forgotten. So thank you.”

 

* * *

 

They didn’t make the trip in a day. After all, traveling an entire country’s distance and then some would be arduous enough, they’d left at sunset and settled somewhere nice in Southern France, probably giving their opponents a fair warning that they were headed in their direction. Lancer wasn’t about to give Gil any points for decency, it was completely a matter of laziness and, as he put it, ‘wanting to instill a sense of foreboding’ in their enemies, so what was the rush?

Babili wasn’t paranoid either, so he let Tokiomi wander as he had before, thinking idly about Saber- _Kirei_ , he reminded himself, was he already forgetting their human past? It wasn’t satisfying, being a Servant, this finicky immortality, no goal in life but the Holy Grail that Gil wouldn’t even strive for, wondering what this world even was, if Aoi was ok, if she’d married someone else and had kids, _Aoi_ , Aoi in a world where he never existed, _was she happier that way?_ He’d never have considered that before, he _couldn’t_ consider it before. She’d always seemed happy, gentle and assuring, never questioned anything, _he’d_ never questioned anything; that way of life had seemed as natural as breathing, and look where he’d ended up.

Eventually the pointlessness of wandering the city as a man with no ties weighed too heavily and he returned to Babili, lounging on his bed and watching the news. 

“Depressing as usual, Tohsaka?”

No response. A small buzzing sound alerted him to Gil’s phone ringing, he picked it up and tossed it at his Master, internally hoping it would hit him, but of course the man caught it one-handed and Cheshire-grinned as he glimpsed the caller ID.

“Oh?”

He flipped his phone open and leaned back into his nest of pillows, turning the volume on the TV all the way down.

“Zayda!” he said enthusiastically, never losing his smile. “... _Saber_? You’re alive, then! Fantastic! I imagine Zayda wants my head for deserting you?”

After a moment, he shot Tokiomi a look and put the phone on speaker, perhaps to rub salt in the wound that was Kirei’s survival.

“She’s near catatonic. She hasn’t spoken for two days,” the unmistakable voice said calmly.

Tokiomi watched Gil suck in air between his teeth. Kirei couldn’t see the‘guilty’ expression the man was forcing right now, as though he was torn between concerned and laughing, but he doubted it would have mattered to him anyway. It was disgusting. Not feeling responsible was one thing, finding it amusing was another thing entirely.

“So who were the Servants?” his Master said dismissively, pushing the topic away from Zayda. Tokiomi wasn’t sure why this was bothering him so much. That’s the risk one took upon becoming a Magus, though he inferred from what little he knew of Zayda that she probably never had a choice in the matter. Either way, she knew what she was getting herself into. If she didn’t like that way of life she should have just left, right? Left and never looked back. Good riddance. _This shouldn’t be upsetting at all._

“Caster is Kayneth Archibald, a rather skilled Magus whose fighting prowess is unfortunately tempered by his bitterness. Rider is Waver Velvet, a child that grew up to surpass his teacher. His phantasm is responsible for my Master’s current state, and he can also pass Servant status to humans, which recreates legendary abilities. He’s going to be a thorn in my side.”

Tokiomi watched the sadistic intrigue creep across his Master’s face, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. This wasn’t good. Not at all.

“So what does that mean for us?” Babili said casually, not letting on how fascinated he was with Rider’s power.

“It doesn’t mean anything for us, Babili, as you so kindly pointed out earlier- we are no longer aligned.”

Gil gave a huge, fake sigh, audible enough that Kirei would have heard it through the receiver. “Then what was the point in calling me and telling me all this?”

“I’m, perhaps more, _forgiving_ than my Master, which is why I’m willing to give you a second chance.”

“That would benefit _you_ quite a bit, _wouldn’t it_ , with you Master shut down like that,” Gil said carelessly. “But what does it do for _me_?”

“I have my theories about the Servant you’re tracking. But honestly, I’ll let you see for yourself. If I spoil the surprise then I won’t have anything to fall back on later, when you’re begging for my help.”

“Oh? That’s awfully cocky of you, Saber.”

“I have reasons to be confident, as I’m sure you personally understand.”

Gil’s smile tightened a bit. He obviously hated being compared to anyone else, even if he had taken interest in Kirei. After a bit of a pause, Gil stewing over this statement, Kotomine decided to cut it short.

“Well in the meantime, I’ll be protecting myself. Give me a call when you’re done, and tell Kariya I said hello.”

Click.

“Hmm I’m beginning to see why you dislike the man, Lancer, he’s quite a sneaky little bastard. But as of right now…”

Tokiomi’s mind blocked out Gil’s careless speech, hateful thoughts clawing away at everything. _What’s the point? What am I fighting for? I’m helpless no matter how much power I have…if I can’t even understand why I’ve been summoned, why these events are repeating themselves, indentured to this man I despise. This world…none of the principles I fought for apply…no organization, no goal but selfishness…this world can’t be worth anything. Is any of this even real?_

“I hate when you get that look on your face.”

_Good riddance, I hate you too, you arrogant bastard-_

“Let’s go find your friend.”

“I told you, none of these people were my friends-“

“At least not during the war, you said. Saber mentioned that name for your sake, what meaning would it have to me? This isn’t the first time he’s said it either. Kariya…Matou was it? Who is this man?”

“Nobody.”

“Kotomine seems to think he possesses some threat to you.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Prove it, then. Give me the fight I’ve been longing for.”

_Why? What’s the use in fighting if you can’t even die with dignity?_

_“Kariya outlived you, Lancer, it seems rather imprudent of you to look down on him.”_

How. There was no way he could have survived that. He had nobody to help him- no friends, no family that would care for him, his participation in the war itself had been a joke. His existence was painful and lonely, a being begging to be stamped out of existence.

_No amount of glory is worth being miserable, right? I guess I can’t really understand you, sorry, Tohsaka._

He hadn’t been miserable, though. He _hadn’t_. That was just life as he’d accepted it, in all its unfairness and unjustness, _he_ hadn’t made it that way, so he’d refused to claim responsibility. Enjoying what existed, seeking to expand upon it, never bothering with those lesser emotions that tempered the rest of humanity, it was the Magus way of life. It was the way Gil Babili was now.

Nothing’s more agonizing than self-awareness. 

* * *

 

Alex Macedonia stood shirtless in front of the hotel room's bathroom mirror, flexing his arms and trying to look intimidating. The muscle rippling beneeth his skin satisfied him for only a moment, before the sound of a teacup shifting in the next room brought him back to the cold hard reality that he was in over his head, he'd had no idea what he was getting himself into when he joined this war, and he was frustrated.

'El-Melloi?" he questioned, loud voice reverberating across the room, causing a stillness to overtake the area.

'The first one," a somewhat vain voice replied carelessly, the clinking of his cup against his saucer scrapping once more. Alex watched his own hairy eyebrows fall into a look of dejectedness and apprehension. He tried to force himself to look feirce again, but wound up with a hesitantly constipated expression and gave up, shuffling idly into the next room.

_I'm nearly 300 lbs of muscle and probably 3 lbs of it is brain at most._

I'm nobody. A King? What kind of King feels this helpless? What kind of King can't even control one Servant, let alone keep him happy?

He was out, now, with Diarmuid, if it was just him and Caster. Rider and Diarmuid got along swimmingly,which was a bit of a blow to Alex, despite his best intentions. After all, Diarmuid was one of those men that just didn't exist in this day and age, he was unnaturally well-meaning despite his occasional arrogance, and he was an excellent mage, something that Rider would naturally admire.

Alex wanted to punch himself for being jealous, because envy was just proof that Diarmuid had things worth coveting, and Alexander...he had nothing. He was classless, untrained, abrasive, and ill fit for this war, just as Waver had warned him the first day they met.

And Waver...

_Waver Velvet El-Melloi._

There was a complicated guy. For every 3 lbs of Alex's brawn, Rider must have all that muscle stored in his brain. His main hobby seemed to be brooding, and after the disastrous battle with Saber, he'd only gotten worse, mostly because watching that assassin woman have a mental breakdown and sob like a child had really hit home just how _fucked up_ this war was.

Waver.

_Don't leave me Waver!_

_I know you._

"Is there a way we can save her?" Diarmuid had asked him later, when Alex visited his bedside. Physically he had recovered entirely, exhaustion aside- Caster's healing phantasm was truly one of a kind, but doing something like that again would undoubtedly be reckless. He'd sacrificed a rather large portion of his body to restore O'Dyna's, but just how much remained yet to be seen...well it would be unwise for them to disclose that to team Rider anyway, even if they were temporary allies.

"We'll think of something. She can't hide Saber very well when she's under that much stress, right? But is it really our job to save a girl who got in over her head?"

"I suppose not," the Irishman had said hesitantly. "Honestly, it's not worth pitying a Magus, but Rider's phantasm would be traumatic for anyone, wouldn't it? Besides, she's going to lose eventually anyway. Perhaps it would be better that someone kind does it, someone that would at least spare her life, if she even chooses to live."

True. And...well, even if he didn't verbalize how he was feeling, that was what Waver wanted, wasn't it? He felt responsible for what he'd done to that woman, because it had been entirely unnecessary.

If anything, it was Alex's fault.

"Of course she wants to live! Who wants to die?!" he said loudly, shocking the bedridden Diarmuid.

"You're a pretty simple guy, Alex. And I...I don't mean that as an insult. I admire that about you. It takes a certain kind of person to shrug off the kind of things we've seen...and it's only going to get worse."

In the current time, Caster levitated his tea idly, pouring himself another cup and looking pointedly at Alex, who tried to harden his gaze.

"You look pretty down today, Macedonia. Tired of letting your Servant walk all over you?"

"Tired of being a bitter snob?" he shot back, sitting roughly in a chair across from Archibald, the wood creaking under his massive frame.

"I have every right to be bitter. You on the other hand... _ha_. Well, perhaps in my timeline you were the type of man I would have envied! Your current state, though...you're just pathetic. Of course, I don't really blame you. 'King of Conquerors'...in this age, no matter what you have, riches, property; nothing is truly yours."

"Relationships," Alex grumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"The admiration of others, genuine feelings and emotions...those can't be bought. That's why you're angry. You're the type of man who doesn't know how to earn the respect of anyone without money. You're right. I'm an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing. I'm also a moron that thinks that in the long run, the relationships you form with people are more meaningful than material possessions, and this is why I'm over my head in this stupid war. But my unhappiness is temporary. I'll push past it and find a way to prove myself and find what I'm looking for. I don't need your validation or anyone else's for that," he muttered.

"I had a student like you once," Caster said casually, looking at him coldly from across the table. "I rather disliked him. His attitude won out over mine in the end, though. Funny how that works." 

* * *

France wasn’t that exciting to Kiritsugu, who had been to pretty much every  country at some point in his human life. Likewise, Arturia wasn’t easily impressed by the scenery or people she met- she was quite comically interested in food, however, and ate a surprising amount for someone her size. So did Gawain, for that matter, but he was indiscriminate in what he devoured, Arturia was incredibly picky and walked out of three restaurants before she found one that suited her. Kiritsugu Emiya dedicated his time to watching her when she  thought he was otherwise preoccupied, mostly because he had spent their  previous war ignoring her adamantly, and also because she’d been acting  strangely since he told his story, and he was trying to digest her  motives.

Gawain, prick that he was, had justified issues under everything. Kiritsugu had researched Arthur’s life and legend before he’d summoned Saber, so he  knew the basic premise of the rest of their stories. What he hadn’t expected was for the current reality to parallel history in such a  complex manner. 

On one hand, it was different. Truthfully, a modern Arthurian story couldn’t be identical to the real, just as history hadn’t been accurate in identifying Arturia’s gender. They were also under a curse and couldn’t head warnings of ‘fate’ which explained why nobody had seen any of it coming. There were a few fundamental differences, though, that had changed the outcome slightly when the events of five years prior happened.

One:  the Arthurian curse obviously did not apply to other legends. Whether  or not they too were under separate curses was yet to be seen, but due  to not being tied to the Pendragon’s complicated history, they would be  able to impact the outcome of the story as it unfolded, and cause  deviations in the fate of the house.

Two:  That also meant that anyone outside the legend could predict the family’s future, and manipulate these events in their favor. However, from the sound of it, nobody in the previous war had figured it out.  More than likely, they thought that the Pendragon’s names were codewords, as they were searching for a Holy Grail like the knights of history. To assume they were real legends would be laughable in the face of reality, even one as twisted as this. The other reason nobody had figured it out was because their previous participant, Lancelot, had  summoned an overpowered Servant that made the war unfairly skewed in  their favor. She had put an incredible strain on him mentally, however, which caused him to terminate himself and the Grail’s human vessel  before it could manifest, which was why this war had started early- the  majority of the required mana was already there from last time.

Three: the only way for someone under the Arthurian curse to change the events or read their fate was to betray the house.

This last fact led into some dangerous territory, in light of Gawain’s  story. In fact, it was Gawain’s story that had enlightened Kiritsugu to these theories, because the story deviated from Arthurian history the  moment Lancelot had betrayed them.

“He killed himself, and took her down with him.”

Certainly not, if legend was to be believed. But dissolving into insanity, the parallels with Irisviel and Guinevere?

There was a dull ache in Kiritsugu’s chest, a surge of complicated emotions  clawing at him. Scuffling in the hotel’s hallway and the fumbling of a key in the lock alerted him to what his thoughts had distracted him  from- familiar mana.

Gawain, obviously inebriated, entered their room abruptly, arm wrapped around  the waist of a giggling woman who seemed equally drunk. The hand that clutched her waist bore part of the command spell that determined his own fate. He gave Kiritsugu a pointed look, and the Archer class Servant stood, glancing behind him as he exited.

Emiya thought back to Arturia’s face, the complex and downtrodden guilt she’d expressed after he told his tale.

He’d only seen Saber behave that way once, and it was minutes before she died- after she killed Berserker.

If Berserker had been Lancelot, then there was quite a big chance that he was still alive, and the Master of Matou Kariya.

Which didn’t really solve any mysteries, because Kiritsugu knew next to nothing about Matou. He was good at hiding, and his brother despised him. He’d been a huge wildcard in the fifth war of Fuyiki and somehow made it to the end without Kiritsugu glimpsing him even once. He didn’t know what his personality was like, his reasons for fighting, or what  kind of Phantasm he’d possess as a Servant.

All he knew was that he’d aligned himself with Kotomine Kirei, and was ultimately betrayed. Ticking it off in his head, he knew that Caster was Archibald, and Rider was Waver Velvet. The Servant they would fight tomorrow was likely an injured Assassin, which was why his mana had somehow become detectable. Their classes also reflected their abilities in life- Archibald, the talented Mage with an ultimately fragile human body- Caster was quite fitting for him. And Velvet, who had been young and impressionable, must have idolized Rider and sought to emulate him  in his adulthood. Uryuu, the killer, had been given the class most adept at killing humans covertly. That left the final three classes as Lancer, Berserker, and Saber.

Realizing  he could hear Gawain’s love connection making noise, that he hadn’t  moved since he shut the door, Kiritsugu headed down the hall, wondering  if any of this was worth telling his Master. He’d sworn honesty to her  but obviously honesty did not extend to his personal thoughts- he didn’t  have to tell Arturia anything until she ordered him to, and even then,  as an Archer, he could resist in spite of the pain. 

Was it worth troubling her? Did it matter if he furthered or hindered her agenda? After all, he’d given up on the concept of heroism, and she clung to it like a lifeboat. The thought that the Holy Grail might be corrupted in this universe was a miserable one, for her and for him. The idea that her dream was already tarnished, that his second chance at creating an ideal world- (no, no, you’ve given that up, he reminded  himself), rather, that his ultimate fate was to fuel a tainted vessel,  it wasn’t pleasant in the slightest.

But in the meantime, it didn’t hurt to try. Giving up now meant failure no matter what; seeing it through to the end…

Even if the chance of success was slim…

* * *

 

The plan made sense in some complicated manner that Kariya didn't want to think too hard about. Berserker prana was extremely difficult to conceal, he knew that from experience, as in Fuyuki city's war, other Servants often sensed Lancelot's killing intent before he even showed himself. Kariya didn't necessarily ooze hatred and anger like Lancelot had, but he did ooze some pretty nasty prana, which was unpleasant to think about, the Matou bloodline being like the stench of homelessness in a way, it would never wash off.

Lance had figured out how to use this to their advantage, of course. The swarm ability Kariya possessed was called Gunpatsusemi, and would allow him to break his body into numerous beetles without breaking a sweat. They were fairly weak- dangerous enough to kill the average human and even threaten a mage in higher numbers, but far more importantly, they shared a consciousness, and split his mana into their individual bodies, so he could simultaneously be all over the city as a scout, and lead their pursuers into various traps.

Funnily enough, Kariya felt pretty confident this time around. Lance may not have been adept as a Magus, but he was extremely smart, and Kariya couldn't imagine anyone in the war was more genre-savvy than him. Whatever had happened in the previous war, and Kariya imagined it wasn't pleasant- it had given him the same cold mentality that had propelled Saber's Master to the end. Saber's Master and...

It had been a while since Kariya thought about Kotomine. It made him feel dizzy and nauseous and uncertain on so many levels because he still couldn't remember some of the things that had happened. Fortunately he was split into inhuman bodies right now- they could not express fear or unhappiness, they couldn't shiver or feel regret, they could only watch and wait and think quietly to themselves.

_Saber- Arturia, is here._

_The childkiller is here._

_Lancelot is here._

_I'm here._

_I exist, these people exist. Who else is here?_

_Don't. Don't think about it._

What is this place?

_Thinking too hard is dangerous._

_What's real? What if this is all in my head after all?_

_Stop thinking that way._

_Don't you want to let go? Don't you want to escape these feelings? It hurts, doesn't it? You see how much pain Lance is in, too. Wouldn't you say he was better off not feeling anything at all? That could be you, you know. Berserker. This class was given to you for a reason. You don't have to think like this._

That awful hissing voice. Was it his own consciousness, or did the thought belong to someone else? 

 _I want to feel,_ he told himself firmly. _Even if it hurts. I want to be human._

_Dirty little cockroach. Who says you deserve those things? Don't get confident, someone will stomp you under his foot._

In thirty different locations, Kariya rubbed his wings together in an attempt to distract himself. Perhaps the Gunpatsusemi phantasm was putting a strain on him mentally. He'd have to tell Lance later that it wasn't good to be split up for this long.

He felt the bludgeon of uselessness pounding at him again, the knowledge that he was nothing without Lance, even in his own life, Lancelot had been the strong one, he couldn't carry his weight, that was why he'd died-

Died.

_That's right, I'm dead._

_How stupid of you, to try to defy fate._

_Too late, too late to change anything, you only made things worse._

Someone entering one of his locations. Which one?

"I don't see a Servant. What a waste of time."

Gilgamesh?

No. 

_No no no._

That dull, blank gaze.

Tohsaka.

Hate. 

I hate you.

_I hate you._

Trap. The trap.

His wings vibrated rapidly as he took off across the room, his tiny weight shift triggering the setup to an explosion that would wipe out the entire room- what used to be the vault in a derelict bank.

Resigned. Tohsaka didn't care. He sensed it and did nothing- Gilgamesh made the saving movement, vanished into a portal of golden light at the last minute. Kariya, incinerated, was gone from this location. 

A few moments later, he was discovered again- the portal opened and Gilgamesh reemerged, followed by Tokiomi, whose eyes immediately flickered to his second location.

"On that tree."

Not all of the locations were suicide traps, but none of them could kill Gilgamesh. Lance hadn't predicted a teleportation ability- Kariya was pretty sure that was damn freaky for a Mage, even in this world. He'd been singed the first time around- the edges of his flashy coat were blackened and his expression was livid, which couldn't be good at all. They were all different, but if he went to each location with the mentality that he could redirect or escape an attack without blinking...and Kariya wasn't sure how frequently or far the ability worked, for that matter.

And Tokiomi...

Everything that man said, every word out of that polished mouth of his, the grace with which he composed himself, disgusting, disgusting, but he was undoubtedly strong, he didn't look concerned at all.

"Obviously he can't speak in this form."

"Oh, is it obvious? You're a pest, Lancer, so I'd hoped you could speak to them too."

Laughter. That man's voice.

_I hate you too. I hate you all!_

The next trap was a tripwire that would have wound around the golden bastard and probably sliced him to bits, if he hadn't aptly retreated into his glittering wormhole. Lance was not a merciful person when it came to war. Neither was Gilgamesh, who was now sitting on a branch next to Kariya, and crushed him with the hilt of the sword he'd just unsheathed. 

True, he could take a gamble on how much prana this bastard had, and hope the constant use of his ability would weigh on him before the loss of bodies weighed on Kariya.

But then Tokiomi...

Tokiomi that bastard, he'd think of Kariya as an underhanded coward, he wouldn't get to fight him fairly, this was terrible, this was so terrible, why did it have to be him of all people?

"We could always bypass the Servant and go straight for the Master." Gilgamesh said carelessly, as they reached his third location. "If this is all he has...I have better weapons back home I could have brought along, if this was the kind of fight I'd be getting. I'm not some sociopath child that gets his thrills by tearing the wings off of bugs, that's more of Kotomine's thing isn't it?"

Straight to Lance? But how...how?

_Berserker, what's going on?_

Lance. Oh shit, Lance. How could he possibly explain this? This man didn't know what Gilgamesh was capeable of. He didn't know how heartless Tokiomi was. He didn't know anything.

If he made the wrong choice and lost Lance because of it...

_You're the last chance I have at protecting someone. If I'm a coward and leave you to fend for yourself...how can I live with that?_

_Berserker, what?_

_I'm coming to you now._

_Berserker, no!-_

A large number of his bodies were already hovering above the town, the guards at the trap locations joining them quickly. Gilgamesh and Tohsaka stepped into the sunlight, the former shielding his eyes and looking up at the mass of insects above him.

Kariya fled, regrouping himself in the tomb where his Master sat, resting his chin on his gloved hands and staring at him with a troubled expression.

"Why would you risk this, Berserker? What are you thinking?!"

"There's...I...I don't know how to explain...the situation...the guy we're up against...I...i know him...I know...well I know -of- the Master, he- I'm..."

Lance stood suddenly, grabbed his shoulders roughly and shook him. It honestly didn't hurt- bigger or not, he was a human, Kariya was something simultaneously stronger and weaker than that.

"If you can't learn to approach these situations rationally, how are we supposed to succeed?! How do you even expect to survive-"

"I-"

"You're driving me insane. Don't you get it? Watching you is painful for me. You'll ruin everything I worked for," he whispered bitterly.

The room became still, Kariya's now human body shaking. It stung. It stung so bad. His hands twitched, teeth gritted, angry roaring in the back of his head.

_Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up_

_Don't hurt him, he's your friend. That's not what you want._

_You don't know._

_You don't know what I've been through._

_"I am the alienated, the ridiculed, the despised. No need to praise my name. No need to envy my body."_

_You… you are the sacrifice!_

"Well look who it is," the callous voice of their opponent cut, his glittering portal fading as he stepped forward with his Servant- with Tokiomi, the blurry red the room had threatened to become snapping back into painful sharpness.

The tomb. Closed in, booby-trapped for at least 50 feet- Gilgamesh had bypassed it all and tracked their mana here. Kariya realized his outstretched hand was reaching for Lance, tense with rage, he withdrew it in horror. 

He’d almost killed his Master.

Surely….surely Lance would have stopped him, right?!

No reassurance from Lance; his melancholy gaze skimmed over Kariya, focused on Gilgamesh. Kariya wasn’t sure where to look- a glance in the wrong direction and he might lose himself again; he found himself focusing on the catlike eyes of the other human, who slicked his hair back as he and Lance composed themselves.

"I thought for sure you'd offed yourself the last time around," the golden-haired man said, his finger instinctively rubbing the hilt of one of the blades he had sheathed in the harness he wore.

The look in Gilgamesh's eyes was strange- that evil, hungry look, one of recognition, like he wanted to erase the existence of everything he saw, hateful to the point of amusement, even, and it was focused on Lance with laser precision.

"Scum like you doesn't even know how to stay dead? Allow me to fix that for you."


	8. The dark behind the eyelids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and in that moment i swear everyone was berserker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -whispers- I'm still alive, I just had a super long writing block and then the other day I was talking to my friend and outlined the entire story and was finally able to finish up this chapter I've had growing dust on my hard drive. rejoice!

The mana within the crypt resembled a sealed jar, contents heated past their boiling point. It felt as though at any moment, one of these beings could explode, destroy the surroundings with their shrapnel-like hatred.

This kind of pressure bearing down on him- Gil’s words to the other master echoed in Tokiomi’s head, you should be dead, _die, stay dead,_ maybe he’d just let them, give it up now, take himself and Babili out, end Kariya’s miserable existence, let the morose-looking master opposite them rest in peace, he looked like he needed it.

For a moment, nobody said anything. Nobody even moved, the first thing that moved surprised him- tears- Matou Kariya had passed two of them out of his good eye, like two miserable nukes that fizzled out when they hit the ground, his body wracked with ugly trembling as his face twisted into a look of pure anguish.

Babili released a short string of laughter, his glittering portals opening behind the other Master’s head without warning, giving him little time to react. Tokiomi still felt the poison in his words, the killing intent he geared towards this man uncharacteristic but genuine.

It was Kariya that made the saving move, but it was hardly graceful- grabbing one of Gil’s swords by the blade so that it ripped open his hand and chucking it to the ground, Tokiomi felt his master tense beside him at the very notion of the offense- a creature such as Berserker touching his weapons and discarding them so carelessly, his treasures splattered with such filthy blood.

Tokiomi thought to himself rather clinically that the requirement for his class- berserker, it was simply to have suffered insanity.  It was odd to think of Matou Kariya as insane, and it had shocked him in their time, to see him take on his family's crest so suddenly, spouting off questions about Sakura and Aoi like it was any of his business when he had done the unthinkable ten years prior and _walked away_. The matter of -why- was still an itch in the back of his mind, he imagined it was physically painful to force his magic to such a progression in that drastically short time, and he'd been near death during the time of their fight, vomiting blood as casually as if it were liquor, as if his entire body was in a perpetual state of drunkenness. Stubbornly, Tokiomi had insisted to himself that it was pure greed, impulse, selfishness on Kariya's part. Aoi had told him that Kariya was like that- flakey and unreliable, quick to change his mind about things he was dead set on before, so maybe he’d changed his mind about his family’s crest, just like he’d changed his mind about marrying a woman he’d previously been smitten with.

_“But he’s a good person, dear. Don’t be so hard on him.”_

He didn't have much time to think about this, because the Assassin-enhanced Berserker was dangerously fast, even if lacking in strength. His Master had snapped out of his daze at the last attack, which had split Kariya's hand open to the bone, but this didn't seem to faze Matou at all. The two of them, despite having been in a heated moment before, seemed to have an understanding of each other that he lacked with Babili, or perhaps some tenuous forgery of that thing called 'friendship,' because Kariya was forcing 90% of his effort on making sure Gil did not land a hit on that man as Gil continued his attempted onslaught.

"Lancer, deal with the pest," Gil said, annoyed. "I am not sacrificing my mana for you to be useless."

Tokiomi held his hand aloft and summoned his staff, twirling it idly so it released a flurry of vibrant blue flames, far deadlier than those he had summoned in life. The intense power of that thing called a Noble Phantasm- his mind was dead to the exhilaration his human self would have felt at performing such magic. It was pointless. He didn’t care. Only the fragments of his pride kept him from giving up- if you lose to Kariya you’re really worthless, as a Servant and a human being. No, he would not lose to Matou. That kind of humiliation would be unbearable, the memory of his human life rolling over in his grave at the thought of it. If he could do one nice thing for himself before he gave up completely, at least he could finish what he’d started in the fourth war.

Suddenly, Gil’s words were digging in the back of his head like a nasty itch.

_You think he was unjustified to betray you and seek his own ideals. But wouldn't you do the same to someone else, if they stood in the way of **your** goal?_

Different, _that’s different._

_I’m not Kirei_

_I had no obligation to be kind to Matou Kariya_

_“He only means to protect Sakura, go easy on him-”_

Kariya turned reluctantly, his right hand twitching with a savage longing to crush something as they made eye contact. It was clear that neither of them were looking forward to this moment, and even more clear that Kariya hadn't expected it- he was given no motive to contemplate who the other Servants might be, and in addition to his lack of insight he was still hateful of Tokiomi beyond measure, which was why he’d been doing everything in his power to ignore him.

Ignoring flames ten times hotter than regular fire was easier said than done.His staff could be changed into the lance form for a more accuracy-driven Phantasm, but due to Kariya's erratic fighting style it seemed more prudent to wait for an opening or burn him down like the massive nuisance he was. The heat from the flames the unreleased form created a stifling atmosphere, the previously frigid air rippling as the temperature grew. This did little to help the Masters, but Gil did not complain- admitting weakness to the stifling heat would compromise his ego, after all. The other Master was clearly skilled in weaponry, and was now doing an excellent job of avoiding the projectiles Gil launched at him, and as Kariya collapsed into a swarm of insects that wove around the room, keeping their distance, Tokiomi spared a glance at the unfamiliar man.

Berserker's human form...he didn't _seem_ insane, and if Tokiomi cared about success at this point, he might be worried. Out of all the Servants in the previous war, Berserker had seemed to give Archer the most trouble, mostly due to his inability to act serious against an opponent he looked down upon. But really that was implying that the Masters really had control, when in the end, what it really came down to was _him_.

Him and Kariya. That man right there wasn’t Berserker, Kariya was Berserker, Kariya Matou reforming with his twisted snarl and single blazing eye, on the fringe of insanity, pride and wrath in their final showdown.

Tokiomi knew by now that speaking to Matou was a waste of time. He’d tried to explain himself last time and it fell on deaf ears.

_My family has obligations. You just don’t understand what it means._

Even if he listened what could they do? They were trapped in this fight until one of them was dead, and really, Tokiomi was just toying with him right now- not because he was cruel, but because he was hesitant. Beating up on someone as pathetic as Kariya was starting to feel unnecessary. He wasn’t ruthless by nature- just when faced with something he wanted, and unless he could somehow take hold of this Grail, there was nothing worth coveting anymore.

“Switch to the lance,” Babili ordered him, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Stop fucking around before everyone here passes out. I want him to be conscious when I rip his lungs out of his chest.”

Why did he hate that other man? So unlike Gilgamesh, to care either way. Fine- lance it was- the staff immediately took on a crystalline form, extending and becoming spear-like at both ends. A few of Kariya’s bugs had been extinguished in the previous waves of fire, and he grabbed his arm out of habit as they fell to the ground, crackling in flames and beating their metallic wings futilely.

Matou was weakening. Heat was not his friend, and his assassin abilities were probably the only thing keeping him from being skewered barbecue, burns from his loss of insects were starting to decorate his skin already...

And yet he kept fighting.

Kariya wanted something. Something deep in Matou’s worm-infested skin was crying out for him to keep trying, no matter how pathetic he looked. The full weight that this man made it further in a war Tokiomi had worked for his entire life with no practical skill whatsoever, just raw determination, was bearing down on him at full force.

And for the first time in his life, Tokiomi felt envious of Matou Kariya.

Trying to ignore those feelings, he stepped on a half-roasted insect with callous resentment, Matou splitting his body in half with a growl, buzzing around him like a swarm of upset hornets.

Just as he began to reform, Tokiomi stabbed him through the side of his head, blood gushing from the wound; bad wine, that’s all he could think of as the blood spilled, the taste of rotten grapes and something sour- Kariya had not formed all the way, the other half of his body was behind him and Tokiomi turned at the last second, forgoing his grip on the lance impaling Kariya’s other half but not in time to stop the scalpel from slicing him across his face, blood filling his vision before Kariya’s own messy hand met the wound, suspiciously gentle in light of his mutilated fury.

“Are you jealous of me, Matou?” Tokiomi asked coldly, needing confirmation that the feeling was at least still mutual.

“Why would I be jealous of someone who had everything but appreciated nothing? I hate you. That’s the only thing I feel towards you.”

Tokiomi looked at him dully as the other heir pressed his palm against his bloody eyeball- Kariya must have known he was screwed, Tokiomi didn’t bother pulling back or finishing him, he didn’t even mourn the damage to his face. Maybe it was worthwhile for Kariya, comforting enough just to land the hit on him, to scar his face irreparably and strike such a blow to his ego before he vanished. An eye for an eye, they were the same thing now, not just their faces mirrored but their lives- lonely, distrustful, all potential reduced to shame.

What would their ancestors think? For some reason it disgusted him that their blood was mingling together, Matou blood, Tohsaka blood, years of bad history flowing from Kariya’s veins into Tokiomi’s- the families that were supposed to be allies, but never really liked each other at all.

The part of Kariya’s body that Tokiomi had stabbed fell to the ground like a useless weight as Tokiomi’s spear dissolved into light. The half that remained before him swerved violently.

“Berserker!” the Master shouted. Kariya lowered his hand, blood smearing across Tokiomi’s face, his bad eye clamping shut at the unwanted intrusion of light- even the dimness of this tomb hurt.

“I know,” Matou breathed. “I’m sorry.”

He was evaporating. Tokiomi’s lance incinerated anything it pierced within minutes; that was his second noble phantasm. Even if the wound wasn’t deadly for Kariya, even if he’d only impaled a brain that was half dead anyway, the fire could not be extinguished by anyone but Tokiomi, it spread across the other man’s body like a gangrenous wound, eating away at his skin like paper, first the bad half, then the part that balanced precariously before him.

Gil turned towards the dark-haired man with his hateful gaze- the former berserker was tired, his hair damp from perspiration, but he held his hand out and offered an unexpected command.

“Last resort.”

A single insect detached itself from Matou’s gaping head, flew to his Master and landed on his outstretched hand. He then clasped it between his palms carefully, Gil making a move forward even as he whispered-

“Thank you, Kariya. You did well.”

Babili’s sword carved through the air in a gesture that would have beheaded him, had he not disappeared an instant too soon. What was left of Kariya collapsed entirely, Gil clenching his sword until his knuckles turned white.

“What the hell did you do?” he spat at the remains; as if Kariya Matou would reply, even if he wasn’t fading from existence.

 

* * *

 

“It’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak to you alone, Waver Velvet. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that.”

Chewing the end of his unlit cigar, El-Melloi II glanced at El-Melloi I cautiously, knowing there was no positive force on earth that would bring his old teacher to speak with him alone. Boredom did not constitute a positive force, by the way. Perhaps Diarmuid pretended to enjoy Caster’s presence, but Alex found him pretentious, and Waver himself went out of his way to ignore him whenever possible. Unfortunately, those two were arguing elsewhere over the next step in their battle plan, and had given Kayneth a opening in his solitude long enough for him to decide, for whatever reason, that he would join Waver in front of the television, a snide smile overtaking his lips as the younger man hesitated to reply.

“I’ve already stated you may call me whatever least offends you” Waver said, after some deliberation.

“In that case I would call you as I see you- _classless scum_. But I really should hold my tongue in the presence of one who has taken on my title.”

“If you’re only here to insult me perhaps I should take my leave now, _Professor Archibald_ ,” Waver said quietly, though there was a sardonic hint to his voice. “You really aren’t any good at flattering people, are you? You never were.”

The hotel they were staying at had one of those ‘pay to play’ game systems hooked up to the television- some outrageous price an hour for you to save your progress, and Waver was flipping through the selections and lamenting the terrible graphics quality of the time period. Even as he decided it was worthless he made little effort to look at his ex-teacher-now-reluctant-partner, but he caught the change out of the corner of his eye; Kayneth’s mouth became a straight line, his expression and coloration reminiscent of a bitter red radish. Perhaps that had been a low blow. Kayneth dealt them himself so why hold back?

“I certainly don’t respect you, Velvet, and I won’t pretend to. You’re persistent- just like that Master of yours, and while years of whining clearly got you far in life-”

“What do you want, Waver said abruptly, standing and slamming his hand on the coffee table. He was only putting up with this because that nagging 19-year-old self that refused to die, that was still a tiny bit scared of what this man could do to him- not physically, but emotionally, and he was clearly trying to turn their power dynamic in his favor once more.

That was when Kayneth’s expression became suspicious again, his tone falsely innocuous.

“I won’t beat around the bush, since you’re such a clever boy. How did you die, by the way? At such a young age, with no foreseeable conflicts in your future after the war you thieved your way into...certainly you couldn’t be older than thirty, at the very most.”

Waver flinched- the reaction was involuntary, he recovered quickly, his eyelids lowered and his gaze drifted towards the blonde. He realized suddenly that Kayneth was shorter than him, had to look -up- at him.

“Such a morose question all of the sudden. Why do you care?”

“You forget, while our Masters may be stupid idealists with human motives, I fought the same war as you, and came from the same world.”

“And?”

“The existence of this scenario- I’d call it a dimension, perhaps, it isn’t implausible, but there are things situationally wrong with it. It is too similar to our own, but if it’s truly a world where heroes walk among men...no, not even that...a heroic spirit was once human, and when reduced to human he isn’t necessarily going to obtain the same notoriety he did in life. But this is exactly the issue...the idea of legends with similar stories to those of our world...and yet magic and technology remain largely unaltered? Bill Clinton is still the president of the United States? I’m aware that you understand the theory of true time magic, you were a rather studious boy, albeit incompetent due to your insufficient bloodline…”

“Get on with it.”

“The theory of time travel speculates that a single individual creates a butterfly effect capable of altering an entire timeline, even one as insignificant as you. And these aren’t just any individuals...they’re people whose bonds were not severed by fate- their personalities remain largely unaltered despite their vastly different circumstances…how naive, whoever thought of this world.”

“Why are you questioning me?”

“That priest...due to his recognition of you during our battle, I would wager you’ve had encounters beyond the age of nineteen. And I have only in my life seen one other man as shady as that priest.”

The bitterness was clear. He was talking about Kiritsugu Emiya.

“I suppose you are suspecting foul play? If that were the case I would have left you to die back there. I have no emotional attachment to you whatsoever. I don’t see what my death has to do with the current situation.”

“Come now, we both researched the other masters...the serial killer died after the battle of Mion river. I’d wager that Matou had very little time left, due to the condition of his body, and Kiritsugu clearly...the point is, though I don’t know the status of Tohsaka by the end of the war and neither do I care, from what I’ve seen of this ‘world’ only two people have aged. At least one of you must know something about how it came to be, since the so-called ‘Masters’ have proven their ignorance to be genuine. And my money’s on you.”

“Why,” he said bluntly, turning away from Kayneth- subconsciously resorting to that old trick of using his hair to hide his eyes.

“Because, boy. That travesty of a priest couldn’t possibly have concocted a half-baked world like this. He’s far too dangerous for that. Take seven people out, replace them with countless others, and yet nothing else of note has changed? The entire association of El-Mellois exists and yet you and I are absent? Someone has to have survived and created this- through what means I don’t know, but if you aren’t in fact dead-”

He thought of it then- the blackness closing around him, the world entrenched in a darkness that burned as it seeped into his lungs. That awful smell.

Death.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered. “I suffocated, you could say. Or perhaps burned to death...either way, it was painful. The moments leading to your death...they’re not pleasant to recall. The human mind does its best to block those sort of things...magus or not, and even then I have no obligation to tell you intimate details. But say I am involved in the creation of this...’half-baked’ world as you call it...what sort of fantastic magical theory do you have to explain this situation, Professor Archibald? Certainly, your presence is not a fond memory I would have wished back into my life.”

Silence. Fuming. Archibald couldn’t even think of a rational response to that, of course he couldn’t. Kayneth knew damn well that Waver had no fond memories of his teacher, certainly not enough to concoct a situation on this grand a scale and reunite with him.

Archibald may be on to some things, but he had no proof to back up his outlandish claims, and so Waver bit down on his now soggy cigar and delivered the finishing blow-

“What’s wrong, professor? Aren’t you a brilliant mind from the Clock Tower’s association of Magi? When you have perfected your crackpot theory, bring it to me for critique. I _eagerly_ await your thesis.”

 

* * *

 

Gawain’s methodology was not fit for partnership with Archer. Had the wound been less fresh than the mere five years since Lancelot’s betrayal, it may have been possible. Gawain himself was a fighter, not a tactician. Both magecraft and physique had been perfected to suit his purpose; of course, it didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies either; but that was besides the point- no amount of pleasure in the world was worth the sacrifice of his king, no skill or tactics worth the agony of his resurfacing paranoia.

Kiritsugu was not Lancelot, but Gawain projected him anyway. They had been partners in the previous war, after all, and good friends before it, he was used to that moody stoicism and non-nonsense tactical approach well before Archer was summoned into his life.

Even if it hadn’t been written that way, their friendship had been doomed from the start; Gawain acknowledged this. Lancelot was a man of few words. Reclusive and stoic, he had difficulty expressing himself, at great contrast to Gawain’s flippant attitude and tendency to pick fights. He was not unkind; blunt to a fault, perhaps, but his honesty had its merits, he was not one to hold back a compliment, nor was he one to put up pretenses. Even as...well, whatever his name had even been back then, Gawain couldn’t for the life of him remember, Lance liked very few people and had very few friends. Bear in mind, he had no shortage of admirers. His mother had been similar, even that old bastard Merlin had obsessed over her, but she had the same distant tenderness that made her untouchable, something beyond human. Lancelot himself was painfully human in his well-meaning standoffishness, but perhaps that was what made him so disturbing, like he was too human to live up to that perfect reputation, the weight of that burden doomed to shatter him.

He excelled at everything but magecraft. He didn’t need magecraft. He had the kind of intense charisma that sucked people in like a whirlpool and threatened to drown them, and even Gawain was not immune to this.

After all, what is a star to a vacuous black hole?

Emiya...had anyone pierced that darkness in his lifetime? Had they tried tried and failed to melt the ice he kept wrapped firmly around him? He seemed tired, as though even the solitude that entrenched him now was nothing compared to what he was capable of in the past, perhaps he had thawed with time and frozen back up in time for this winter. Gawain had come close with Lancelot...God; at least, he thought he’d come close, maybe it was a lie just like everything else, but it had seemed real, the trust they shared like brothers-

**No.**

**Not like brothers.**

Like what, then?

Why had Lancelot called him that night; “I need you to come quickly. Elaine has killed herself;” w _hy him?_

Perhaps he was ashamed to tell Arthur, after all, his marriage had hardly been a happy one, and the death of the Holy Grail’s human container a mere year before the start of the war went beyond unfortunate and into ‘disastrous’ territory. Elaine...Gawain knew Elaine, she was devoted, she was gorgeous, she was pretty much the ideal woman, but Lancelot acted like she didn’t exist. How they’d conceived a child was a complete mystery. If Gail hadn’t been the spitting image down to his melancholic expression Gawain would have suspected immaculate conception. It was no wonder she’d killed herself. Up until the moment she blew her brains out, all she’d done was try to get a reaction out of that man, but his eyes were glued to the wrong woman from the start.

It made his blood boil to think about it, to even compare anyone to that bastard, but that was exactly how he felt; the wound reopening every time he laid eyes on Emiya Kiritsugu.

 

* * *

 

Though they were a clan of shadows, it was acknowledged by the Hassan that the world they lived in was gray- that even the shadows befalling the earth could not achieve pitch blackness. There was a precautionary tale told among Mages that dissuaded such black-and-white thinking, the concept of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ that humanity used to define their laws.

The story of ‘the gray world’ was divided into those very two concepts, but Zayda, cut off from daylight and reason, could only remember the beginning.

All the World’s evil. She wasn’t purposefully recalling the story anyway- she tried not to think much, very rarely opened her eyes at all, she knew her body was withering away with starvation and occasionally heard Saber’s deep voice through the thick fog that clouded her mind, urging her to eat something, but any voice at all was unwelcome, it brought back the tide of others vying for control of this body, threatened to erase her entirely.

Kotomine didn’t care, of course, for her. It was his own status that worried him- the effectiveness of drawing mana from a shut-down master, of her practicality in battle when she couldn’t even move enough to bathe herself or take a step outside.

Perhaps that was why she could only remember the first part. Cut off from light, burdened with the reality of hundreds of minds and three futile lifetimes, the existence of good in the world seemed a foreign concept.

 

> **All The World’s Evil.**
> 
> Though in a time of relative peace, a remote village once feared an ancient curse. This curse, the personification of evil, would bring disaster upon their peaceful lives if it was not given a vessel to contain it. In order to sate its lust for slaughter, a single man would be raised as the idol for this hatred, his body subjected to every travesty this world has to over, tortured to the point where even death would be the kindest of blessings. Though the world he lived in was not cruel, the life he lived was, and so he knew nothing but bitterness up until his untimely death.
> 
> Upon his death, the man whose being was shaped by darkness thought; “if only such a story were true, if only such evil existed in tangible form,” for then he would not have existed and died in vain.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, how foolish of that little village, to try to push the wheels of fate in its favor..

 

That was where it ended for her. It was plausible, even, that the other half belonged to the memory of another personality. It didn’t matter. Like that nameless man, she was born to live and die in shadow. A continuation of such a story, recalling the shades between night and day, it would only hurt more.

 

* * *

 

Uryuu Ryuunosuke hadn’t really thought about what the inside of his head looked like until it was blown off, and even then, he’d really only had a few seconds to fathom it- sharp as sunlight, the pain bringing a rush of endorphins stronger than any drug.

It was all he could see now, ‘see’ in the vaguest sense of the word, like a childhood home you come back to years later, derelict and boarded up; damp and empty, it smelled of the color red, it made a sound like meat crawling with maggots, stirring with awful things his mind struggled to form crude images of.

While Gilles slept, this was all he had.

The kind of pain he felt now was unpleasant. It was like being wasted at 3AM and crawling into an alleyway to throw up because you forgot the way home, suddenly being yanked into some stranger’s car and blindfolded. He wasn’t really aware that he wasn’t alone in here until the other voice started talking, and he brushed it off casually anyway, talked to it because hey at least it was _something_ to do.

_Upset? You don’t peg me as the type to experience remorse._

_Eh, I’m not, really. I mean, it sucks. I got to live again though. How many people can say that?_

_You’re going to die. You’re going to return to nothingness. Do  you even understand what that means?_

_I don’t know...I guess? I never really thought about it._

_What scares you then, Assassin? Loneliness?_

_I don’t give a shit about what you people call loneliness. I’ve always been alone. Even if there were other people around._

_Until you found him, right? Found someone who shares your sick little hobby, stringing people up by their wrists like cattle and letting their guts fall out._

_You’ve ever done that sort of thing?_ he thought, unable to contain the excitement at the thought of it.

_I’ve **been** that sort of thing._

The voice had a form- it was strange that anything was visible in this darkness, but he couldn’t _really_ make him out- an emaciated, pale figure, he was obscured by a caustic shadow of some sort that warped his features; molten blackness, only a single eye blazed red, the other a pale, unfocused blue and dead as a corpse’s, both sucking Ryuunosuke in like magnets.

Red.

_Red red red,_ his favorite color, the color he missed more than anything, it was there before him- _Berserker._

_Does it hurt, Assassin? The fate of everyone you killed- eternal darkness, eaten away by worms, screaming for help that won’t come. You don’t want to care, but you do. There’s a difference between insane and a selfish prick who lack self restraint. You don’t want to die like this._

_You’re wrong. I don’t care. I’m not obsessed with living like the rest of you shitheads.  
Prove it._

_I don’t have to prove anything to you._

The presence shifted like a hologram- he was right in front of him now, his molten features swimming before his, a staring contest between blind eyes, hands constricting his airway- his own hands, his own body turning against him- he was really going to do it, while Gilles slept?

_Then I’ll just kill you now. Undramatic and quiet, just like you hate. I’ll put your Master out of his misery before he even has a chance to suffer. I’m not like you. This doesn’t have to be loud or painful._

Quiet defeat, going out with a whimper instead of a bang. No. No, he didn’t want that. This guy was no fun at all!

_What’s the other choice?_ he thought frantically

_Madness,_ the other hissed, the darkness buzzing like a mass of flies.

He remembered it again- looking down at that vivid color painting his hands as his own life drained away- something that was there the entire time, waiting to come out. Madness, like his blood, red, red eyes, red blood.

It figured. Karma had evaded him once again?

Would it make him stronger? It didn’t matter. Ryuunosuke’s ability to judge was already lapsing as he grinned, running his tongue across his bloody teeth even as they became knifelike and jagged. A sound came from within- it didn’t mean anything, halfway between a laugh and a scream, must have scared Gilles shitless, his brain running on an entirely different vocabulary now, he could only half understand the words from his human companion.

_I can’t see anything. I don’t have to feel anything either. Nothing matters anymore!_

“Assassin?” Gilles murmured, presumably looking at him in concern.

Concern?

_Concern? Why? You want destruction, Gilles?_

_I’ll give you everything you want._

_Kill, kill everyone. If we’re going to rot anyway, then so will everyone else._


	9. The Piercing Light of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smell it womrs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title is "Kariya's not the only one that got burned ooooh" but apparently that's not serious enough. Also shoutout to luna for being tokiomi trash and basically the fate fandom on tumblr for inspiring me to write this again, also everyone and anyone who ever reviewed. cept that one guy. ur a dick.

In his lifetime, Tokiomi Tohsaka spent a fair amount of time in front of the mirror. He wasn’t obsessed with his looks, but conceited was applicable perhaps; aware of himself, of the importance of presentation and its impact on social graces. He had emphasized the same to his wife and daughter- that the Tohsaka family way was a way of elegance, from their posture to their magecraft.

An angry red wound swelled on the left side of his face now, a furious line that dug its path across his cheek and through his eye, clamped shut during his battle with Berserker and unopened since.

He hadn’t gone to the bathroom to dwell on the deformity. Gil Babili reminded him of it frequently enough, looking at him with amused disdain and then outright laughing-

“Looks like you aren’t so pretty now, eh Lancer.”

He was nauseous. He felt like vomiting, a splitting pain traveling through his head whenever he looked at the light, the skin across his cheek was welted, and even if his eye still worked he doubted he’d be able to open it.

_Ugly. Disgusting._

He remembered thinking that when he’d first seen Matou Kariya after he’d taken on his family’s magic. Tokiomi’s composure had spared him the instinct to recoil at the sight of the once modestly handsome man, a complete wreck, a walking corpse writhing with worms-

His knees trembled and he grasped the sink as he almost lost his balance, forcing himself back up and clenching his teeth, his own furious expression foreign to him, his face alien, the strangeness of it absorbing his attention, as though locked in a staring contest with a stranger. He didn’t even notice the other Servant’s presence until the mirror reflected the light of his knives, and even then his reaction was far slower than it should have been as he turned to face the unwelcome intruder.

His entire body had been hot, so he’d opened the bathroom window to let the winter air in. There hadn’t been any Servant mana detectable until that moment, but it was really no surprise, considering who the bastard was.

Lancer’s fist balled as he twisted around, Kotomine Kirei perched in the high-up window of their latest swanky establishment and looking down at him with a smug sadism. Tokiomi was still not accustomed to that expression on him- the concept of that empty, listless man who had served him metamorphosing into a sick bastard like this; the almost elated look that crossed his face as he soaked in the injury that had laid claim to half of Tokiomi’s face.

Tokiomi drew his own weapon, but Kotomine vanished his with a small chuckle, placing his chin on his hand.

“Are you here to fight me? Or to see that snake. He’s out right now, you know.”

“I am well aware of your Master’s whereabouts,” Saber said carelessly, still focusing on his wound intently. “But your implication is hurtful, Tohsaka. I simply came to visit an old ally. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it when you weren’t paying attention.”

“Of course you would,” he growled, staff beginning to glow with unleashed energy, before he looked to the side and dispelled his weapon as well. There was no point. “But cut the bullshit. You came to gloat about Matou. Don’t bother.”

“Oh?”

“He’s dead,” Tokiomi whispered, trembling hand reaching upwards, touching the inflamed skin gingerly.

“What makes you say that?” Kotomine said with a fabricated curiosity, and Tokiomi made an irritated ‘tch’ and turned back towards his reflection, once again confounded by his own anger- anger was not an elegant emotion, in a way it was stranger and more unfamiliar than the wound itself.

“Because I killed him,” Tokiomi responded impatiently.

“I suppose people die when they are killed” Kirei replied lightly, still not faltering in his unnerving gaze. “But what makes you so sure you killed him?”

“I lit him on fire and he burned to death. What, did you excavate him again when I wasn’t looking? I watched his body turn to ash this time,” he replied acidly.

“It’s not his body I’m skeptical about,” Kirei mused, stepping from his perch into the bathroom, causing Tokiomi to tense. “It’s yours.”

“What the hell are you on about.”

“Surely you must have noticed by now? A wound that superficial should not be swollen to such a degree. Even if his weapon was cursed, the curse wouldn’t have spread to this point if the inflictor was dead. We aren’t human, Tohsaka. Injury and infection don’t work with us the way they do with humans. By all means you should know this- this was the issue the previous Saber suffered from in the fourth Holy Grail war of Fuyuki, and the injury was healed upon Lancer’s death. Tell me- did you not deal with his Master after you incinerated Matou?”

Tokiomi tensed, his hand brushing against the inflamed skin hesitantly.

“I see. So he escaped. In that case, he is still able to supply mana to Berserker, regardless of Berserker’s current state being dormant. Of course, there is always Assassin, who undoubtedly fell victim before you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know, do you? Rin always insisted you didn’t. I thought you to be a bit more cutthroat and less naive, but you always did place your trust in the wrong people-”

Kirei’s voice stopped as the razor sharp tip of Tokiomi’s lance was suddenly inches from his neck, the expression in his remaining eye vengeful.

“Don’t toy with me, Kotomine,” he whispered dangerously. “If you want to see how cutthroat I can be, I will demonstrate it in a literal sense. Never mention my daughter in front of me again.”

“If you insist I don’t...well then I suppose it’s not forbidden to speak of Matou Sakura? She was, after all, not your daughter.”

“Was…” Tokiomi said, his voice faltering along with his resolve, enough for Kirei to sidestep his weapon and walk closer to him, still intent on his eye in an almost catlike manner. “You mean she’s-”

“Dead? As of the time of my own demise, she had indeed perished as well. This is the truth of the Matou family’s magic, of course. You saw it for yourself in Kariya, and yet you chose to forge your ignorance to an unimaginable point. That house is a cesspool of corruption and misery. They no longer practice true magecraft. The rotting hosts for an aging parasite...this is what that family’s magic had degenerated to.”

“Matou Zouken-”

“Makiri Zolgen,” Kirei whispered, a twisted smile warping his features, his own pleasure growing at Tokiomi’s horror. “Though what was once the ancient patriarch of a great branch of alchemists had become little more than a sentient nest of worms by the time you came to know him by that name. Even he became a victim to his own magic. No human is meant to live five hundred years. As the body decomposes, so does the mind. Even if he could walk and talk, Zouken’s motives had devolved into the needs of a parasite- merely to feed and reproduce.”

“Why…”

“Don’t ask me why. I myself could never understand that foul man’s motives, but I have my theories on his bloodline’s thinning. The worms he summoned- the very worms that ravaged the bodies of countless descendants, fed on the prana of their hosts, slowly draining them of life. I believe that over time they began to dig into their circuits themselves, rendering the Matou bloodline magically impotent. Since they never learned true magic, only a tenuous control of the insects that fed on them, it’s impossible to know the truth. Kariya himself was his last chance for a capable heir, but he must have discovered the true intents of his guardian at a young age and escaped. To return to such a place in light of this knowledge was indeed a noble attempt- to save Sakura from the fate of all those housed under the roof of Matou Zouken. Truly, the ways of the Tohsaka are a blessing in comparison to the suffering endured by those of the Matou.”

“Then Sakura…”

“Such a tragic child- a blossom that flowers early is prone to shrivel and die before the others. She outlasted her uncle, but it took its toll on her sanity. Of course, the premature start of the fifth war and her involuntary involvement couldn’t have helped.”

“I…How...”

“At a loss for words, are we? I suppose any further and I must reveal the status of the other children of these unfortunate beings we call Mages. I kept a close watch over all of them, but I maintained my distance. Unfortunately, my interest got the better of me, and I was undone as well by the end of it. And look where I am now. How curious-”  
“Don’t toy with me,” Tokiomi trembled, in disgust or fury he knew not. “What does any of this have to do with our current situation?!”

“Are you familiar with the cycle of abuse, Tohsaka? I would believe not. The psychology of normal humans wouldn’t appeal to you, after all. The knowledge that the victim will inevitably become an abuser themselves if not given the proper care...things like this must mean little to a Magus. But to someone like Matou Kariya, who had broken free, both of the abuse cycle and of the Magus life, this means everything. He had seen it before in his brother; a cowardly child he had failed to protect, who grew up to be a spiteful alcoholic without an ounce of remorse for his actions. That sort of misery spreads like a parasite- like the Matou magic- it runs as deep as their bloodline itself.”

A splitting pain ran through his head, an over-boiling rage that threatened to consume his wavering sense of self if it wasn’t stifled. He wanted to reach forward and tear Kotomine’s stupid Cheshire-grin from his face, and the rest of his skin with it; see if the skull under that flesh was even human after all. It wasn’t his anger; he realized, it wasn’t him feeling that emotion, but whatever monstrous urge to kill he had experienced was quickly smothered by his body’s own uselessness. The room flashed white and Tokiomi lost hold of his magic for a moment, the spear he still held vanishing as he grasped for his injured eye in agony. Kotomine grabbed his wrist, did not allow him even this comfort, surveyed the injury he was pawing for with that wretched grin of his. Tokiomi’s arm twitched in his grip, longing to put pressure against the wound. Something in the back of his head itched- almost as though another consciousness were gnawing at his dead eye, a monster ready to burst from behind his eyelid and rear its ugly head.

“While I doubt you can hear me in such a weakened state, you undoubtedly felt the sting of those words. They ring true, do they not? Mage or not, is this man not your future victim? From the view of one who has endured such travesty, if you were truly the saint you claim to be, you would wish it upon no one else. But you and I both know you are no saint. Like your ancestor Zouken, any noble intentions you may have degenerated into mere selfish impulse- a need to gratify your own lust for revenge. Am I not right... _Matou Kariya?”_

It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach at those words. Lancer vomited as Saber lessened his grip, allowed him to stoop over and heave the contents of his stomach onto the immaculate tiles, shaking with nausea and fury. When he was finished, he did not rise. Why feign dignity now? His bile was stained with a tinge of red, proof that what Kirei said was true- that he had fallen victim to the same magic that took his daughter’s life.

“You bastard-”

“I wonder if that’s your rage or his speaking. After all, I’ve never seen you lose composure before. If I had more time, I would study this effect, but even then I doubt he will let you live that long. So what will it be, Tohsaka?”

“What are you saying,” he rasped, throat still burning from his unsightly retching.

“I’m giving you a choice to accept my help graciously. One of my noble phantasms is anti-corruption magic. It’s healing on a tier most Servants are incapable of...and it would remove the parasites from your body.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Why not? You’re the only ally I have now. Babili would certainly not stand to benefit from your loss, though if you perished I suppose I could exterminate my unfortunate master and form a pact with him. Still, it seems wasteful…”

“Don’t…” he hissed, causing Kirei to stop for a moment, to meet his eyes as he forced himself to his feet, wiping his mouth. ‘Don’t treat Zayda and I as things you can just dispose of as you wish. That’s not…”

“Not how you treat human beings? But I thought you were aware, Tohsaka.”  
That awful man smiled that awful, unnatural smile, I wish you’d go back to feeling nothing; anything was better than that smile.

“You aren’t humans. You’re mages. At least...she is. You aren’t even that much anymore. A remnant, brought back to life by the Grail. If anything you should be grateful to have a second chance. And yet you use it to disgrace yourself again...and this time I was even so kind as to warn you.”

This time it was Kirei who drew his weapon, the blades extended and pressed against his forehead. The man’s dark features were clouded; Lancer felt hot in this room, like he’d set off the flames of his Noble Phantasm inside his own body. He was almost grateful for the coldness of the metal blades against his skin.

“Do you know why I won’t kill you right now, Tohsaka?”

“I don’t _want_ to know.”

“But you’re in no position to tell me to keep quiet. It’s because it would do nothing for me entertainment-wise to slaughter you here. The roles have been reversed...I’m not talking about our Servant status either. I saved Matou from you...so the least I can do is repay you for the entertainment you brought me.”

“Burn in hell” he said, through his clenched teeth.

“But...it would appear you’re the one burning, Tohsaka,” Kirei said, almost disappointed, but far too casual for it to be from hurt. Disappointment at his pride?

It wasn’t pride anymore, it was masochism, plain and simple. But perhaps that was close enough to pride for Kotomine. Knowing he deserved this fate and accepting it- rotting alongside the very person he had scorned, the fact that he could still give a proverbial 'fuck you' to his help in this state was the closest thing to rebellion Tokiomi could achieve.

“Very well, keep burning. Maybe I’ll save you when you’re closer to death,” he laughed. “Maybe not. Watching you act like something other than a repressed snob of a magus...that’s funny too…”

 

* * *

 

Gilles watched his own blurry finger trace circles around his book. Blood sacrifice, sacred circles, nothing at all to explain how to rid himself of these parasites. Even so, his eyes were losing their use, fogged and heavy and even more crossed than usual, and he slicked his hair back and looked off to the side, where Ryuunosuke Uryuu was perched on a decaying pew, watching the door like a vigilant, patient animal.

“Ryuunosuke?” he offered softly, receiving only a low growl in response. He’d been like this since this morning. It could only be what was referred to in the books as ‘mad enhancement.’ The color had finally faded from him entirely. He was like a ghost swathed in black, the teeth behind his snarling lips unusually jagged, cutting into his own skin.

Gilles knew their time was running out. He did not know what Assassin knew, that the Master-and-Servant trio known as team Archer were making their way towards the mana pool at this very moment, but he could sense the disturbance within his servant, the man formerly known as Uryuu like a coiled snake ready to spring.

“If you could see me now, what would you say, Jeanne? I hope you would...tell me I’m disgusting,” he offered to the silent church. The figure of Mary shone through the glass-lights, responding with nothing but a throbbing migraine and a hissing voice of agreement.

_You’re a disgrace to humanity. You don’t need her to tell you. Anyone can see it, plain as day._

It echoed in his head, to such a degree he’d imagined the voice was ringing in the rafters above.

_Are you Matou Kariya?_

He knew the man’s name, surprisingly. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they were connected now, the same way that servant had whittled away Assassin’s brains to nothing, he was inside of him too, gnawing away at his mind like a wrathful zombie.

_Something like that. There used to be a man by that name._

Ah.

He understood now. This man, the servant named Berserker, he hated his name. He was unattached to it, both in consciousness and memory. In a way, he held himself in just as much contempt as he did his victims.

“Are you going to kill us?” he asked. Ryuunosuke shifted at the spoken words, but did not comprehend them. It seemed Berserker’s threats were meaningless to the shell of his former friend, if he could even hear them.

_Wasted effort. I must conserve mana. That’s what Lance told me to do._

“You really like that guy, huh?”

It seemed to catch him off guard. The menacing aura subsided for a brief moment as Kariya reflected.

_Yeah._

“I understand. Believe it or not, I used to be a lot like him, too.”

The consciousness of Berserker rustled.

_You can’t possibly be anything like Lance. Lance is a good person. You’re disgusting. You’re...repulsive. I have to punish you._

Gilles chucked. Down the drive of what used to the the church’s parking lot, he could see three shadows approaching the broken-down doorway.

“It’s too late for that, Servant. I’ve been punishing myself for as long as I can remember. The pain of dying...is nothing compared to the pain of living when she’s dead."

 

* * *

 

Gail Corbins had never been afraid of death. Although he was fairly adept at living, the experience of being human eluded him to some degree.  His own mother had seen this as a blessing- a man that could never understand love could never break hearts, a child who couldn’t make mistakes never had to worry about growing up. He was the perfect vessel for the Holy Grail, but that right had eventually been revoked from him, her own suicide an ironic factor.

It wasn’t punishment, per-se. He found out the truth four years ago, when Morded’s body had finished growing and she was removed from her container, unknighted at the time, a sullen girl who was given the name Morgan, after Arturia’s half-sister, the one who had developed her.

Even at eight years, Gail was strange and quiet, and he frequently overheard the others voice their dissent at his presence.

“Both parents committed suicide, Arthur, and within two years of each other. I wouldn’t place my stakes on him being a reliable vessel.”

Truthfully, they needn’t have worried. It was love that took both parents’ lives, and love was something he was fated never to feel.

Despite Morgan’s sad existence, she was hated by the rest of the house. Gail had always seen her as a girl, but it meant nothing to him, really. She’d forgotten this and his attempts to recall the twisted tale that didn’t match up the other day had met with contempt and fists.

No matter what the tales said about Mordred the traitor, Gail could never hit Mordred back. He pitied her because she was looked at with distrust when even his own tainted heritage had been forgiven. He was a promising Mage, inheriting the impressive circuitry that had skipped his father’s line. He was polite and soft-spoken and gentle, and even Gawain couldn’t begrudge him for existing, even if his face was a sore reminder of the man who had slaughtered his family in cold blood.

But everyone, absolutely everyone, hated Morgan.

They played together for the first three years of her life, after she developed enough human traits to converse. He didn’t have anyone near his age in the house or at the monastery, and the others looked at it as natural, even if they were inclined to distrust her. Eventually she started to open up, became less mopey, practiced swordsmanship with him, drew pictures, even learned to stumble through the sheet music for the piano.

And he’d read to her, from that book.

“Who is your favorite knight from the tales?” he’d asked her, as they sat out by the stream.

“I like Sir Galahad,” she mused, after much deliberation.

“That’s strange…why him?”

“Because…he’s like me. His father didn’t acknowledge him, he was left alone so much…but he still tried his hardest. That’s why he was said to be the greatest of King Arthur’s loyal knights.”

“And who do you like the least?”

“Hmm…Mordred, I suppose. He’s the one that hurt them all, wasn’t he?”

A heavy stone settled in the stomach of Gail Corbins, flipping the page of history and present back and forth in trepidation. Despite knowing otherwise, he nodded apprehensively, and assured her that she’d be a hero, like the brave, pure Galahad, and would never betray the house, no matter how much cruelty she endured.

“After all, your father means well,” he assured her. “Things are just...complicated.”

She laid back in the grass, then, olive-colored eyes drifting upwards and watching the clouds.

“Tell me another story,” Morgan whispered. “One not about King Arthur.”

“OK,” Gail agreed, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

A pitch-black landscape. She could barely discern her own bare feet from the sand. It reminded her of her life- his life; not Zayda but Zayd, the real her, the being from which she had been concocted, just a string of consciousness pulled from a fraying shadow.

The rest of them were here too, huddled together, talking amongst themselves. Life, death, in-between.

She pulled herself from the central throng of assassins, looking for the abnormal, the intruder. Less used personas were scattered throughout the barren landscape. As she walked further and further away, the air became warmer, her own feet emerging against the tar-black sand as a light came into view overhead. Moonlight; specifically, a lunar eclipse in mid-session.

She looked back.

Another child, the same height as her, as polar-opposite in every way imaginable. The girl was as pale as the bones they used to obscure their faces. Her eyes could only be described as blood-red. She looked hungry, too sinister to be a true child.

She thought of Babili for a second, that’s how frightening those eyes were- like under the saint-like attire she was concealing a very gleeful devil.

“Hello, little assassin girl. Shall we play shadow tag?


End file.
